


The Dying Blogger

by Kahvi, Roadstergal



Series: Solitary Runner/Full House/Dying Blogger Trilogy [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of miscommunication, crime, sex, detectives and their bloggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John walked back to 221B from the clinic with atypically ground-eating strides, noticing little of anyone or anything around him. He barely even noticed the cold, or the route he was taking. Angry thoughts buzzed around his head like hornets disturbed from their nest.

She had been calling him for weeks. Weeks! And he - it would have looked like he was simply ignoring her calls. Sherlock had made him look like an utter, complete, wholly unredeemable cock. No wonder she had been avoiding him.

Worse than that - well, perhaps not worse, but certainly deserving of consideration - she might have actually _needed_ him. Living alone, in London - emergencies happen, and you have to be able to rely on your friends. Suppose she had needed him, and couldn't get in touch? Sherlock hadn't considered that... No, he simply did not give a good damn about that, John fumed. Sarah was merely an obstacle. That's how Sherlock thought of people; objects to be used or to be moved out of the way. John Watson was an object that was useful for sexual gratification. Sarah was an obstacle in the way of that aim. And so Sherlock had dealt with both.

Sherlock's door was closed when John arrived back at 221B. That was for the best; John absolutely did _not_ want to see him. The words of anger would come out all wrong, and Sherlock would ridicule and snark and simply not understand, as trust and betrayal were abstract concepts, for him - nothing to take seriously in his own life.

John ran up the stairs to his room, pulled out his bag, and started to pack it. A few shirts, a few pairs of trousers, fresh socks and pants. Trainers; he was wearing his good shoes. Laptop in its slipcase. Phone charger and laptop cord. Gun in the jacket. He left behind the one he had gotten from the thug; Sherlock could deal with that. He zipped up the bag, thundered down the stairs, and grabbed his toothbrush and razor from the bathroom.

He paused in the middle of the main room. Should he leave a note?

No, why bother? Sherlock Holmes, master detective, could damn well deduce it all on his own.

* * *

Sherlock ran up the stairs, the front door slamming behind him. "Avocados," he yelled, noting that the door to John's room was open. He threw his coat and scarf on the sofa, heading into the kitchen with quick, eager steps. He frowned as he noted telltale scuffmarks on the carpet, left behind by someone in a hurry, wearing dress shoes. Sherlock filed the fact away for later - if it was important, John would have texted him about it, and of course, there would have been other signs. More pressing matters were at hand - early refrigeration was vital, or the entire experiment would be ruined.

"We need exactly 21.45 pounds of ripe avocados," he added, when there was no reply. Possibly 22 pounds would do, but part of him wanted to see if John would actually get him the precise number. A silly indulgence, perhaps, but there was something exhilarating about seeing John do what he asked. People usually did what Sherlock asked, of course; manipulating the average person was so ridiculously easy that it had long since ceased to interest him. John, however, did what Sherlock asked because he _wanted_ to. Seeing it in action was a little bit like what he imagined a magic act must be like for other people; you knew there was a trick to it, but you just couldn't figure out what.

And part of you was afraid that if you figured it out, it would stop happening.

There was room in the freezer compartment, but still no reply from John. Sherlock closed the fridge with a frown. Come to that, the flat was unusually quiet.

"John?"

The shower was not running, and though John would have ignored him if he was using the bathroom for any other purpose, there was a marked difference to the quality of the silence. John kept his shoes and coat in his room, but this silence gave potential new meaning to those scuffmarks...

On his way back into the lounge, Sherlock paused. Dress shoes. John only wore those to work; they were a slightly bad fit, and he hated shoe shopping, and so had not replaced them even after he'd started making more money. He took them off the moment he got back from work, which would have been hours ago no matter what hours he'd worked - the clinic closed early on Wednesdays. Now he'd gone straight back out in them again?

Cautiously, Sherlock made his way up the stairs. Something made him not look in John's room first, and head towards the bathroom. The sink was directly opposite the door, lit mirror above it; toothpaste and a single toothbrush below it. Sherlock stared for a moment, then closed the door.

All right. There was the crime. What about the motive?

He remembered John leaving for work this morning, chattering on about something as he ate his breakfast, Sherlock scanning though the morning papers next to him. Paper editions were always different from the online versions; he liked to compare the two, laptop perched on his knees as he read. The chattering had been happy, surely? There was a distinct impression, in Sherlock's mind, of smiles and laughter, and he definitely remembered the kiss. Wet and soft and slightly salty, tasting of eggs on toast.

What had happened between then and now? Work. But work didn't make John unhappy; if they were on a case, it made him tired; if they were not, it energized him, making him feel useful and wanted. Then what? What was there about work that agitate John to the point where...

...oh.

Well, it had only been a matter of time.

Sherlock walked back down the stairs, then down again to the front door. He opened it and walked out, not really feeling the gusty wind. You only felt it if it mattered, and it did not now, particularly. Fishing in his pocket, he found a fifty-pound note, handing it to the scruffy-looking woman standing under the roof of the closed sandwich shop. She took it, looking up with what stupid people might have considered surprisingly clear brown eyes.

"Thought you'd given that up, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock shrugged, walking back inside. "Nothing lasts forever."

* * *

John's shoes were making themselves known as he trudged down the pavement of the streets of Richmond - but no matter, he would be at his destination shortly. The houses stood back from the street, a token patch of green in front, displaying all of the individuality of soldiers at attention. The quiet was eerie, without the bustle of humanity and traffic that filled downtown London. He had only been here once before. It really wasn't a difficult journey from Baker Street, but he never had felt much motivation to take it.

He stopped outside of one house, not massively distinct from any other on the street. He didn't have to ring the bell; he had only been standing on the porch for a second or two when the door opened, and a woman who (he had been informed) bore a somewhat disturbing resemblance to him stepped out. She did not, he was a little surprised to note, have a glass in her hand. "John!" Harry said, her face a mask of concern. "I got your text - what's wrong?"

Rather than waiting for an answer - which suited John just fine - she pulled him inside. The house's interior look was different from what it had been when Clara had lived there. it had obviously been refurnished professionally; it bore no sign of anything Harry would choose for herself. The cleanliness was also not of her; she must have a maid over regularly. She grabbed John's bag, while he toed out of his shoes with a grateful sigh. "I'll just drop this in the spare bedroom. You can stay there as long as you need... How long do you think you need?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. Some days, perhaps." It would be difficult to find a place downtown - the deal with 221B had been, certainly, too good to be true - and he needed a little time to decompress, to let the anger and disappointment congeal into a vile sludge that would be more easily expelled.

Harry tossed his bag into a room off of the main corridor, then walked back and grabbed his arms. She was shorter than he, but still had a way of making it seem that she was looking down at him. "Poor John... You don't look yourself at all. I know what to do. Let's go for a walk down by the water, then I'll take you out to dinner later. Yes?"

It was unexpected for Harry to be so uninquisitive about what had brought him out there, and John was grateful for it. Perhaps some deeply-buried sisterly instincts had emerged; she was certainly filling the role to perfection. She was energetic and jovial, walking quickly and making sure he did the same, wearing him out just enough to ensure he didn't have time and energy to mope.

Later that evening, they rented some bad movies, and - yes, Harry opened up the drinks cabinet. John wasn't typically one for hard liquor, but it seemed apropos, and so they drank copiously, laughing and crying with the mercurial swings common to both the soused and the betrayed. Drunkenness made John's predicament feel noble, almost tragic, and he luxuriated in the self-indulgence. Harry happily fed (and watered) that feeling, and when John eventually went to bed, the night seemed lofty, and the cloud-streaked moon shining through the window told him softly that he should be very proud of himself.

He woke the next morning feeling like a twat, but that was to be expected.

* * *

A knock on the door. Part of Sherlock wanted to ignore it, but that would be doubly pointless. The key was in the ignition; now he had to follow through and actually drive. So to speak - he'd never sat behind a wheel.

The boy outside looked either 70 or 17 depending on how the light, which was sparse on this December evening, hit his face. He was grinning, hands stuffed in his pockets. Sherlock had seen him before, of course, but the name escaped him, which meant it wasn't important enough to know.

"Yes?" Sherlock said, when the grinning just kept going with nothing to follow it up.

Finally, the boy nodded. "Delivery for ya."

"Oh, good."

A small, transparent plastic bag was proffered. Sherlock looked at it in dismay.

"Packaging is evidence," he muttered, tearing it open to grab the contents and stuffing the debris in the bewildered boy's pockets.

"Oi!"

"You'll remember, next time." With that, he slammed the door - he had gotten a text, which should not be read in public. Not that particular type of public, anyway.

Not that it was from John. _Not coming back._ These things would take time. _Won't speak to you again._

Sherlock leaned against the front door, suddenly feeling light-headed. A headache was coming on. Sighing, he opened his palm, revealing a flat, round tablet. He should go upstairs. _To be alone._ He very definitely should not be hanging around here - he should go up, read the text. _Alone._ And perhaps later, he could order out; he hadn't eaten in quite a... _doesn't matter anymore._ Sherlock swallowed. Then he swallowed the pill. Belatedly, he looked at his phone.

His eyes grew wide.

* * *

John sat in a chair that was far too hard and far too coarse, rubbing his forehead.

Work had been surprisingly temperate. Sarah had been more understanding than he had expected (not that his expectations had been high). Then again, she had met Sherlock, and likely had concluded he was indeed capable of doing what John said he had done.

The searching look she had given him when all of this became clear (or as clear as it was going to get) was disturbing on other levels.

He might well have salvaged her friendship, which was a blessing, but would likely require work to keep in good standing. This was enough, already, to put his brain in a tender state for the Tube ride back to Harry's place. Harry, in turn, was behaving more like she normally did - which was not helping John's brain at all.

"Oh, you can tell me!" Her voice interrupted his reverie. She swirled her glass of cranberry juice and vodka ("Less caloric than beer," she had told him proudly), the clinking noise of the ice scraping his spine. "You two were shagging, right? I always told you you'd like men, if you tried. Was he the first?"

"I don't want to talk about any of this," he sighed.

"You'll feel better if you talk about it!" she announced. "Really, trust me. How is he? I know he's cute... isn't it always the cute ones who fuck someone else behind your back?" She laughed loudly. "Does he have a big cock? I can't stand them myself, but I bet you like them, eh? A package arrived for you today, by the way. Hey, is that Sarah girl single now? She is _hot_..."

John wished he could just say "Leave me the fuck alone," but it wasn't in his nature. Instead, he mumbled something about fresh air and left.

He stepped outside, sucking in a lungful of ice-cold air. His jumper was not up to the task of securing bodily warmth against the midwinter air, but the biting wind cleared his mind. He shivered. Inside, he could hear Harry on the telephone, her voice too loud, her laughter too coarse. Still, he was grateful that she had someone else to talk to, someone with an ear that was amenable to being talked off.

He leaned against the outside wall, scanning the neighborhood with disinterest. A couple hurried down the pavement, holding their coats tightly closed. A cat raced across the lawn of the house next door. A cab pulled quietly to the curb. Little movements punctuating a long, crushing quiet - nothing like the heady bustle of London. This was a terrible idea... he couldn't stay here.

Someone was shouting... his name? The taxi - was that Sherlock stepping out of it? John sighed, burying his face in his palm. Maybe this wasn't the last thing he needed - he could leave that space for a colonoscopy, or a bullet in the head - but it was certainly near the bottom.

Sherlock stumbled out, the sheer amount of concentration needed for the simple task of _thinking_ making him sweat. Burning. A very long-seeming street, and... John. Oh, _John._ Sherlock ran towards him, struggling with the gate that inexplicably appeared out of thin air, finally just jumping over it when it refused to budge. _John!_ And, oh yes, the package... there it was! Had to get that away; keep John - _John_ \- from touching it... Sherlock kicked it away with his foot. It skittered a few inches away, rather like poorly batted cricket ball.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" John hissed.

The voice startled Sherlock; the tone so sharp and piercing, though really, it was _John_ , and there he was; John was there! Sherlock turned towards him, eyes wide. "John!" There were other words, probably, but none seemed more important.

Something was out of place. The bemused, repetitive way he was speaking, the disorientation, the sweat... John looked at Sherlock's eyes. A small, thin ring of iris surrounded a massively engorged pupil. "Are you high?"

Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't look at John without tearing up; after all, here John was, quite simply, when he was _not_ at home. How could he be here, so simply, when he was gone? _No_ , that was unimportant. The package; he had to explain the package! With effort, Sherlock forced his thoughts into some semblance of order. "John," he managed, "this is very important."

John sighed. So Sherlock had gotten high on one of his play-drugs (oh, how naive he had been when Lestrade had raided the flat) and decided that coming over to talk to John would be a _fantastic_ idea. "I know social niceties aren't your thing. But would you _please_ have the common decency to fuck off for a few weeks?"

Shaking his head was something of a challenge, but Sherlock gave it his all. "No time. They _sent_ it this time, which means you need to be dead."

Sherlock was babbling, now. "Go home." John turned around. He wasn't looking forward to facing Harry, but he would take her over Sherlock right now.

No, no, no, _No!!_ Wrong, all wrong; they had to make it right; had to fix it, and why wouldn't John help?! "Don't you understand; why do you never understand? They'll kill you!"

What was this, some kind of ridiculous threat? John turned back, anger starting to grab hold of him. "If you don't leave, I'm going to kill _you_." He glanced back at the house, hoping that Harry hadn't taken note of the disturbance.

The words struck like a whiplash. _Kill_. Yes, this was Sherlock's fault after all, wasn't it? Really, it was only right. "Yes." Sherlock took a few steps to the left, where the parcel had landed, and picked it up, as carefully as he could manage.

"Leave that alone," John sighed. It was obviously one of Harry's.

"No, you have a point," Sherlock mumbled, holding it carefully as he turned to leave. It was not John's risk to take; he was right. Sherlock; it should be Sherlock doing this. Dying. Not John. John shouldn't die, that was very important... there was a gate here, again; what was with these constantly appearing gates?

John walked over, pulling the box away. He'd never seen Sherlock like this, acting so infantile; it must be the drugs. "Don't steal my sister's shite. Go home."

"No!" Exasperated, Sherlock could do nothing to stop John from taking the parcel out of his grasp, and desperation caught him in an icy grip. "It will _kill_ you." Maybe John had not understood? He looked so... God, he was _gorgeous_...

John tucked the box under his arm. He actually felt calmer, better able to deal with Sherlock, now that he realized it was just the drugs talking. "Sleep it off, you'll feel better."

"Please, put it down," Sherlock pleaded, feeling utterly helpless. Could he do nothing to prevent this? John would _die_ ; John couldn't die! Or should he be dead already? Vague ideas, plans he only barely had time to formulate, earlier, swirling in incomprehensible patterns in his mind, just out of reach.

John looked at the package, and frowned. It had _his_ name on it, in careful, formal writing - "Dr. John Watson, MD" - with his sister's address. Wait, hadn't Harry mentioned something about a package for him? It had been lost in the stream of things he did not want to hear. "Is it from you?"

Sherlock shook his head again, trying to express with it what he could not get across in words. He had to _concentrate_! "They want to hurt me," he managed, squeezing his eyes shut, "through you. That's why they tested..." Tested, yes; the eBay package and the trainers and note, and what it had proven - Sherlock made the mistake of opening his eyes, and was instantly lost in John's angry stare. He was everything; John was _everything_ ; why would anyone have the need to test that? With serious effort, Sherlock shook it off, scrambling to maintain some semblance of a focus. "I didn't think they'd actually do it."

John realized he was wasting his breath trying to communicate, even to get a simple question answered. "You're as high as the fucking Concorde, and you're making no sense."

"The..." He could do this; it was just a matter of effort... serious effort, "people. Trainers. I thought you were dead, but you weren't." Loss. The emotion, remembered, cut through Sherlock like razor wire. And John was lost to him now too, wasn't he? Yet again. Again and again. Sherlock tried to keep their eyes locked, holding on to that small token. They were so blue, those eyes. So _so_ blue...

"The eBay package?" A small bit of John started to wonder if this all fit into a poorly-expressed, but still coherent pattern. A larger part of him looked at Sherlock icily. Sherlock nodded, his mouth falling open a little. "So - you thought I had received a dangerous package in the mail from an enemy that thought he could get to you by harming me." If this were the case - well, this was even worse, wasn't it?

"Don't think," Sherlock mumbled. "I know." It was all too much. He looked away.

"So, instead of texting me or calling me, you _came over_ , supporting the idea that you can be 'gotten to' through me, and dragging my _sister_ into it, too." John jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the house.

It was a little easier, Sherlock found, when he was not actually looking at John. "They already knew." Surely John did not think Sherlock would put him in _danger_ , intentionally? Put his _family_ in danger? Sherlock forced himself to look back, carefully. "Please, put it down. Call the police, if you like. Won't help, but if you'd rather." If John would not listen; if Sherlock could not make him, perhaps he would at least take some basic precautions. Against... against... Sherlock found his hands were twitching, moving towards John a fraction, then halting. He should not touch. He _could_ not touch.

"How can I believe you," John sighed. It was more of a statement than a question. Sherlock was distraught and high, babbling... was John making more out of what he was saying than he should? If anyone could speak convincing nonsense, it would be Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, deeply, putting all of his frustration and defeat into it. Momentarily, it felt like relief. "You don't have to." It was impossible, he found, not to look at John entirely, but Sherlock could no longer meet his eyes. "Call a doctor if you open it. I'll... fix the rest." He had to leave. Sherlock knew that, but he was no longer ruled by any semblance of rationality, and could not tear himself away. Did not, could not, would not...

"Tell me what's in it."

"Don't know. Poison. Wouldn't tell me this time, won't be the same, too easy."

John sighed again. "Look, if it will get you out of here, I promise I'll take it to work and open it in a biosafety cabinet, all right?"

Sherlock nodded, slowly, still looking. Knowing that John would be safe, he let himself go, falling back into a fog of confused, intense emotion. Soon, he could only vaguely remember where he was, or why he was there. "All... right."

John nodded back. The look in Sherlock's eyes... he was definitely out of it. Yes, it was clear. Sherlock just needed to go home and sleep it off. "You'll go home?"

"Yes," Sherlock croaked. Home. Meaningless word. John stood before him, strong and forceful, so irate there seemed to be a halo about him - he was bathed in golden light. His eyes were shining; so, _so_ blue... Sherlock sighed, sadness mixing uncomfortably with lust. "You are absolutely gorgeous."

"Don't start with that... please." Yes, this only reinforced the idea that Sherlock had just come here as an excuse to see John, to try to drag him back, making up any old story. It wasn't _right_.

Sherlock sighed again, almost moaning. He was hard, just from the sight of the man. From hearing his voice. "Keep safe." With his back turned, he could still feel residual warmth; that radiance, no doubt. John was some sort of... something. And then there was the gate, again, and the taxi, and wherever it would take him to.

John stood outside with the box under his arm, watching Sherlock leave. He couldn't hear the instructions Sherlock gave the cabbie, but at least he could make sure the man left the area.

He watched for a good ten minutes after the cab disappeared, then headed back indoors, shivering from the cold. What to do with that blasted box...

* * *

There were stairs. Those were familiar. The difficulty of coats, and how to remove them - then something of an interlude in the lounge, when Sherlock realized how smooth and shiny the texture of the sofa was, and how it felt against the skin of different parts of his body - then the kitchen, where he found, eventually, that he had been staring at the fridge for an unknown period of time, as it was now dark outside, and that generally took several hours, as far as he could remember.

Then, the bedroom, where he spent himself helplessly over the duvet, rutting against it and remembering John's scent which no longer could be on it, of course, but so much of the olfactory system was in the brain, and despite current appearances, Sherlock did have that, in spades.

He woke, sticky and malcontent, in the grey morning light of far too early, turning away and back into sleep to keep the headache he knew was inevitable at bay just a little longer.

He would have to get up eventually, of course, but there were pills for that, too.


	2. Chapter 2

John looked carefully at the little white mouse in the microisolator in the corner of the hood. Not that he _had_ to look carefully - it was clearly in substantial distress. Its red eyes were slitted against the light, its coat was rough, standing on-end, and it hunched in the corner, shivering.

He sat down and looked out of the window. Whatever was on the purchase order that John had dropped in the cage was clearly both highly infectious and highly nasty. Some enemy... well, he _had_ seen the boy with the gun, hadn't he? And the note from the eBay seller? Still, he could not get the thought out of his mind. Sherlock, distraught, mercurial, sending this and immediately regretting it... _No_. He felt dirty for even thinking that. That simply was _not_ Sherlock, no matter what little games he played.

His reverie was interrupted by Gaz, the skinny lab tech that a friend at work had introduced him to. All things considered, he was glad he had pulled a few strings to get someone in a bona fide infectious disease laboratory to do him a favor. "Oi, what was _in_ that?" Gaz squinted at the mouse and the PO, then looked over at John. "Ordering online isn't safe anymore, eh?"

John glanced back over, then stood. "Thanks for the favor... can you..." he waved at the cage, "take care of that?" It was definitely out of his training.

"Won't tell me what's in it?" Gaz asked, grinning.

"Something infectious," John replied, putting on his best faux-innocent face.

He tossed the disposable lab coat and gloves in the biohazard bin and left, deep in thought.

So, he had been legitimately in danger. Running back to Sherlock would not solve anything, however; even if it made he and his family safer - which he doubted - it was a bad move in the long run.

He would simply have to be more careful. Fortunately, neither he nor Harry drove, so sabotaging their cars was not a valid strategy. And amusingly, the crushing boredom of Harry's neighborhood meant that strangers would be few and easily noticed, unlike the endless teem of humanity in the heart of London.

At some point, Sherlock's enemies would figure out that John had nothing more to do with the man.

The thought of abandoning Sherlock to deal with the danger alone, however, put a bad taste in John's mouth.

* * *

The third time Mrs. Hudson offered to 'bring up a little something', Sherlock gave in simply to make her stop asking - it was far better than shouting at her, which, while she generally took it without complaint, would do nothing to solve the matter in the long run. The 'something' in this case turned out to be a selection of biscuits and some tea; the latter Sherlock would normally have welcomed, but now the familiar smell only irritated him. He shoved the tray, first to one side of the table, then underneath the pile of papers, which had the pleasing effect of hiding both the smell and the offending object itself.

Sherlock shifted on the sofa, trying to muster up enough energy to move. Sleep, he found, was... problematic. The bed was not his alone - the only object in the flat of which that could be said, a fact which could not help but prey on Sherlock's mind. The sofa did not fit him terribly well, and lately the nightmares of his childhood had returned, as they so often did at times like these. The only difference, really, lay in the shape and form of the dark creatures now telling him they would kill him.

After a while, even the faint smell of Earl Grey grew too oppressive, and Sherlock kicked the tray off the table, pot and all, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's shouts at the door - which were worried at first, then annoyed.

As everything tended to, if left long enough, she would go away, eventually.

* * *

Harry was out cruising the bars when John finally returned to her house, and he was grateful. He found some dried pasta in her cupboards, made a simple dinner, watched some bad telly as he ate it, and went to bed.

Not to sleep.

In that strange half-state between waking and sleeping, images of Sherlock took over. His rational mind told him this was normal - it had been an intense relationship, and it was still fresh in his mind. But his rational mind was the first to go, and all that was left was Sherlock. Their hands brushing as they walked down the pavement, Sherlock taking the moment to lace his fingers in John's. A kiss beside the Thames, the taste of coffee in Sherlock's mouth as hot and bitter as the man himself. The angular lines of his lean face thrown into sharp relief by the harsh winter sun through the window. The feel of his body, impossibly tight, impossibly hot, that dusky voice almost mewling in passion...

He was brought out of his half-asleep tossing and turning, the sheets sticky with sweat and precome, by Harry and this night's conquest all but swinging from the chandelier - with didn't help.

* * *

It was getting to that quiet part of the day at the clinic (which always came, if rarely at the same exact _time_ ), when a hesitant knock sounded at John's office door. "Come in." He was almost caught up with his paperwork; even with one more patient, he should be able to finish it before closing.

The door opened carefully, admitting a woman who would probably try to hide any offense at being referred to as 'elderly.'

John put his pen down, surprised. "Mrs. Hudson?" Well, why should he be surprised? Even landladies had medical woes.

Mrs. Hudson offered him an apologetic smile - in fact, everything about her body language screamed _apologetic_ , or rather whispered it politely, so as not to be too much of a bother. "Hello, dear," she told him, hesitating by the door. "I do apologize for coming 'round like this, but Sherlock never gave me your number, you see."

John got to his feet and pulled out a chair. "Please, sit. What's wrong?" Nothing jumped out at him immediately; she appeared superficially healthy.

With little waves and appreciative chatter, she somehow managed to make his offer seem fantastically gracious, sitting down with her hands firmly clasped. "I really wouldn't have come, normally; I know things haven't been..." she hesitated again - she seemed to be doing that a lot - "good... between you two," she said, delicately, hurrying to add: "and that's none of my business, but to be honest, I didn't know where else to turn."

John waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about us, Mrs. Hudson; you're welcome to whatever help I can offer." He did briefly consider what Sherlock had done for her, and hoped her current needs would be a little more tame.

Mrs. Hudson nodded with some degree of embarrassment, like she'd been prying into John and Sherlock's private lives, before going on. "You know Sherlock, he gets his little moods, and sometimes he doesn't eat for days, or sleep, most likely, considering the hours he keeps." There came that hesitation again, this time, John noticed, underlined by genuine worry. "And that's fine, it's just his way, isn't it? But he'll always be working, when that happens, and he hasn't been, not for at least a week, although that Lestrade came by the Monday before last, but that was just the one day..." She was clearly rambling a bit now, as though unwilling to get to the heart of the matter.

John frowned as she spoke, a variety of feelings churning in his viscera. "Did you come over because you think Sherlock is unwell?"

"I know how silly I must seem," she said, sounding anything but. This was the most serious John had ever seen her. "Trying to look after a grown man who can't care for himself. I wouldn't blame you for thinking me batty." She caught John's eye. "I've known Sherlock a long time - long before he ever lived in my house - and I tell you, I've never seen him like this." Her nails, neatly polished in a transparent, light pink hue, picked nervously at the handle of her handbag.

John looked at her, searchingly. He couldn't possibly have this kind of effect... "Really."

"If it were anyone else, I'd have called a doctor long ago, but you know what he's like."

"I do." John paused, then leaned across his desk. "Let me think about what I can do." Good god, yes, this would require thought.

Mrs. Hudson smiled in pleased surprise, making little non-committal sounds of appreciation. There was still a note of seriousness to her ever-present smile, though. "You mustn't think I'm an innocent," she said, leaning back. "I've seen a thing or two in my time, and I know what he gets up to, sometimes, when he gets 'bored', like he says. Those deliveries he gets, and then he doesn't go out for ages..." she shook her head. "I can't say I like it, but this is nothing to do with that." She added, mumbling, "Though it can't be helping."

John nodded, chewing on his pen. It made him look hideously unprofessional, he knew, but he had to chew on something, right now, and this was the only decent option. "Thank you for coming by. He's still... someone I care about, greatly."

There was a note of relief to Mrs. Hudson's expression as she leaned over to put a hand on John's, briefly. She smelled vaguely of inoffensive perfume and lemon-scented cleaner. "I know, dear." She got up, readying herself to leave. "I'll let you get back to work," she said, gently, with no hesitation, now.

John nodded, forcing a smile for her. Back to work. No fucking way was he getting back to work _now_. He leaned back in his chair, pondering.

* * *

"Are you absolutely sure about this, Sherlock? You're looking a bit under the weather."

Lestrade sounded genuinely worried, and Sally tried her best to stifle a giggle. 'Under the weather' was the understatement of the century; Sherlock looked like he'd been through both washer and dryer, with an extra spin cycle to boost. His clothes were as impeccable as always, of course, one thing she couldn't fault the man for. When you felt like shit, at least you could dress well and make an effort with your hair and make up. Not that Sherlock wore make up. Probably.

"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't sure."

Hell no. She couldn't let that lie. "He's asking us to arrest an MP - a Conservative MP - on what? The fact that her umbrella was the wrong color?"

Sherlock was actually leaning against the wall, his eyes nearly falling shut, but that could just be their mutual dislike of one another. "It wasn't _her_ umbrella, and of course not, that would be ridiculous. The umbrella shows that wasn't her in the broadcast from Antwerp, which means she would not have been there at the time the files were stolen, which means she was lying under oath, which, in turn, will be sufficient grounds for arresting her, yes." He raised a haughty eyebrow. It shouldn't be possible for eyebrows to be haughty, but Sherlock somehow managed it. And with that, he strode out.

Michael, one of the younger officers who rarely saw much of Sherlock's antics, ducked out from behind a filing cabinet and gave Sally a look. "Bloody hell. What's his problem?"

"His boyfriend's left him."

She's said it intentionally loud, wanting Sherlock to hear the jab on his way out, but she hadn't expected the sudden about-face, nor the icy stare he consequently threw her. Sally snorted. Scare tactics. She wasn't about to give into that.

"What? You're always dragging him along, like a lost puppy. You've been here twice this week, on your own."

"Sally," Lestrade warned, but no, she would not let Sherlock win this one. Who the fuck did he think he was, waltzing into someone else's workplace and telling them how to do their jobs?

"Good for him, I say." She held her ground, despite Sherlock's evident fury. How insecure was he that a gay joke would get him that upset? Honestly, he deserved the ribbing.

"She's going to die," he said, suddenly, and Sally nearly jumped. He couldn't. He wouldn't. How could he possibly... "They've told you it's just pneumonia, but with the state of her lungs, you should know what that means. You do know, but you're keeping it from yourself. The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

The fact that he'd left didn't register until the clicking of his heels had faded, and Sally realized that everyone was trying not to look at her. Michael cleared his throat.

"Isn't your gran in..."

"Shut up Michael," she said, and because he wasn't anything like her and possibly never would be, Michael did.

* * *

The Tube ride back to Harry's gave John ample time to think about Mrs. Hudson's visit.

Sherlock was in a bad way, using drugs again, generally being the person John had only caught glimpses of, in the past. That was utterly, unequivocally a bad thing. What could _John_ do about it, however? Ask Sherlock to stop? Reason with him? Not a chance. Go back? That would create far more problems than it solved.

Worse than the knowledge that Sherlock was dealing with his situation very badly, however, was the knowledge that he was now being targeted by an unknown enemy - just when he was in the worst possible state to deal properly with such a creature. John pictured him as he appeared on the lawn the other night - drug-addled, desperate, a sad husk... John brushed away angry tears. This was doing neither of them any good.

Nor Harry, now in danger (whatever Sherlock said, he couldn't imagine the unknown enemy targeting her more than, say, Mrs. Hudson before John moved in). Likely Sarah, too. An enemy that sent poisoned mail... He _did_ owe Sherlock for the warning. Now that he had a little time to consider the situation, he shivered. Even as careful as he had been, opening it in the cabinet, if he had made just one misstep, let the contaminated slip get too close to the front of the cabinet, absent-mindedly rubbed his nose with a glove...

The seed of an idea plinked down in John's mind, and he sat back in his seat as it germinated. He nurtured it, watered it, and had a decent sapling by the time the train rolled into his stop.

He made one quick stop at the chemist's on the way back to Harry's, even though it was already quite late. Harry was sitting in front of the telly when he finally arrived at her house; she had a drink in her hand and a ready-made dinner in her lap. "John!" she exclaimed. "Sorry, I wasn't sure when you'd get back, so I started without you. I have some more in the fridge..."

John made his voice hoarse. "No - it's all right." He coughed, as painful and hacking a cough as he could manage. "I'm not feeling right - I'm going to turn in early."

"Are you sick?" Harry asked, turning as he walked past her, towards his the guest room.

"Think so," he said, ruefully, shuffling his feet slightly as if he did not have the strength to lift them all the way.

"Well, make sure you get enough sleep, and some orange juice... bloody hell, I don't have any... I'll pick some up tomorrow, and some chicken soup, and you sleep well in the meantime..." The role of 'caretaker' was about as far from one she could perform naturally as the role of 'cocksucker,' but John felt an odd warmth at her even trying. And a slight amount of guilt - but he pushed that away. He was going to have to do a lot of that.

"I will, thanks," he ground, hoarsely, and walked into his room, closing the door behind him.

He tossed his earlier purchase - a compact of rouge - into the nightstand drawer. He stripped off all of his clothes, down to his pants, and slipped under the covers, taking his laptop with him. He booted it up, thinking a little sadly about the lunch he had slighted earlier in the day. It would be a while before he would eat again, if he was going to pull this off appropriately.

 _Not feeling so well_ he typed into his blog. _Seem to be coming down with something. Hope it's not flu._  



	3. Chapter 3

_Seem to be coming down with something. Hope it's not flu._

Sherlock read the first blog entry while still in bed one afternoon and considering the value of getting up at all. Forcing aside his first, instinctual reaction of fear and horror, he sat up, and considered the matter.

 _What_ was this? Answer: an indication, a hint. Nothing obvious, not just yet. There would be more. Sherlock struggled out of the tangled sheets. Either way, there would be more. Meanwhile, temporarily, there was _purpose_.

Before long, Sherlock was trying to brush his teeth while simultaneously searching PubMed.

* * *

Over the next few days, Sherlock had his finger glued to the refresh button on his phone's browser, lounging on the sofa or huddled in a chair until a new, sparse entry appeared, making him jump into a frenzy of activity. He called in favors, getting access to databases and archives he should not even know existed, always alert for the next indication, the next symptom.

 _Maybe it's swine flu. Can't even get out of bed._

But it wouldn't be, couldn't be, and John would _know_ that. Had Sherlock not already been certain, this confirmed it; everything was going according to plan! _His_ plan! He gave a small yelp of triumph, shouting out for Mrs. Hudson to bring tea and ignoring her frankly crude mutterings about broken china and wastefulness. He followed the sparse little chunks of text, carefully logging every word, every hint, every syllable.

* * *

The next entry came two days later, reading simply: _Sorry. Not muh time to update. Got quit high fevr, shold probbaly see doctor other than mself._

Sherlock grimaced. Odd, that. He _knew_ what was going on, and yet the near-physical reaction of worry and fear would never leave him, not quite. He spent the rest of the day pacing, running down the stairs to yell at the young girl delivering the evening paper when she made too much noise, opening the door and throwing it back at her. Eventually, night fell, dawn broke, and another afternoon wore on, much like Sherlock's fingernails and the much-abused upholstery on the sofa.

Then, at 2:15 PM, the page finally shifted as it reloaded, a short paragraph of utterly nonsensical text replacing the topmost entry.

It was time.

With a few swift keystrokes, Sherlock typed out a text message, and headed out.

* * *

John's phone buzzed. He looked over idly, without interest - it had buzzed many times in the past week, various people variously worried; he had learned to ignore them all, the guilt of doing so settling from an acute stab into a dull ache. The worst, of course, had been Harry; she was genuinely frightened, sure that there was something _very_ wrong with him. She was revealing a sibling's affection that had never before seemed present, and it struck him as farcically tragic that it hadn't been revealed until now. Fending off her attempts to help and keeping her away had been difficult, and had required various combinations of reassurance and threats of catching something highly contagious. He would have to find a way to send her out, soon, and for a good amount of time, and was wracking his brain to determine the best way of doing that.

However, when he saw the name over the text, he almost fell out of bed to grab the phone. The message was terse, as all messages from Sherlock were, and brooked no argument. "Situation approaching critical - vital that I be present."

 _Bugger_.

* * *

The door slammed behind Sherlock when his phone rang. He pulled it out and answered in irrational near-panic (if John was able to phone he would still be alive, and They were not yet there, and all could still be made well), completely unprepared for the hesitant, familiar, _female_ voice.

"Hello... Sherlock?"

"Sarah."

There came a sigh, or possibly the clearing of a throat. "Look, I know you don't like me. Truth be told, I don't like you much either. But I'm worried about John."

"You needn't be."

"He's with you, then." Hand outstretched to flag down a taxi, Sherlock froze. Not even a question. She assumed John would be with him. He took a step back from the curb, mind reeling. "I appreciate you being honest with me - now and... before. You'll take care of him, won't you?"

A taxi pulled up towards him, and Sherlock snapped back to reality. "It's not... he's not with me."

"Oh." Surprise. Relief? But definitely surprise.

"I have to go. But he'll be safe. Trust me."

There was a note of laughter in her voice. "I don't know about that. But I trust your abilities."

Sherlock opened the taxi door, hanging up without a reply. Neither of them would expect one.

* * *

John - _no_ , an utterly distraught woman with a striking resemblance to John - answered the door. "Sherlock??" she asked, startled, showing every sign of anxiety and stress, as Sherlock supposed one would if one thought one's brother were dying. _Harry_. She looked so much like John that all attempts at social niceties were instantly forgotten, replaced by instinct.

"I need to see him immediately."

"If course! I hope you can get through to him - he won't listen to me and see a doctor. I mean, not like you two, you know, I was just hoping he would listen to _you_ , since..." In her rambling, she was apparently forgetting that Sherlock could not enter while she was still standing in the doorway.

"Let me through." Sherlock moved to push past her, briskly, not impolitely. He had some ways to go before he reached impoliteness, yet.

"Yes... of course... come in..." Harry stepped back. Idiotic woman; not, perhaps, so much like her brother after all. Had she thought Sherlock could walk through walls?

"I've called some specialists - let them through when they arrive." Sherlock hurried on, not waiting for reply, leaving her behind, twisting her hands.

"All right... do you need me? Can I get you something?"

"No."

"All right..."

She was clearly not happy to not have something to do, but that was not Sherlock's concern. Nor was she; there was only one thing on Sherlock's mind, now. The layout of the house was as he'd predicted; he reached the guestroom and strode in without ceremony.

The guestroom door shut behind him, and Sherlock froze, staring.

John had been listening at the door. Sherlock had assumed as much, but seeing him now, it was evident that he had just been doing so, and had hurriedly gotten back under the covers when Sherlock had approached. To the casual observer, however, John would appear to have been bedridden for days. The effect was striking; he appeared to be sweating and highly feverish, lips chapped, face gaunt and drawn. The sweat and chapped lips were real enough; that was nothing a few extra blankets and lack of moisture couldn't accomplish, but the redness was rather expertly rouged in, with remarkable attention to detail. He clearly hadn't eaten for several days, which served to underline the drawn, haggard look he was affecting. Sherlock was torn between awe and acute, irrational panic.

Yes, panic. Bile in his throat, adrenaline pumping. Sherlock _knew_ it was fake; could see every carefully assembled detail with crystal clarity, but some of it (all of it) was too close for comfort, and that instinct of fear and worry and pure _ache_ welled up with unexpected strength. It hurt to see John this way. In such an utterly unexpectedly _real_ way.

Of course Sherlock had come, John thought, watching the man walk in as if he owned the place. What else could the text have meant? John knew he'd have endangered the whole plan if he had texted back _don't_ , and so, Sherlock was here. Looking more than a little odd, but John could not think about anything extraneous to the charade right now and still keep it up. "You didn't have to come," he said, quietly.

With irritation, Sherlock noted that his mouth was hanging open. "I did." What else was there for him to do? Had John forgotten this was Sherlock's idea he'd so brilliantly executed?

"I'm ready to take care of... things." John nodded towards the nightstand drawer.

Oh, the gun. Always the gun, with John. "I know you are," Sherlock assured him. There could be nothing but absolute certainty about that. A surge of pride hit Sherlock, quelling the worst pangs of panic. "Hopefully, it won't come to that." He could not stop staring. It had been weeks, and frankly, John now looked much like Sherlock felt. Well, moving on - Sherlock was here for a reason, and so he headed towards the closet in the corner. "When they come, just keep them talking. Don't acknowledge my presence!" Sherlock opened the closet door, trying to keep his eyes from returning to the man in the bed - a man who Sherlock had never, until now, felt it fitting to refer to as small. But John looked the part now, unequivocally.

"All right." There was nothing more John could do but play along - events were in motion, unstoppable. He lay back down on the pillow, mouth slightly open, breathing with a distinct rasp.

Sherlock paused, his hand on the closet door, one foot already inside. Seeing John again was like finding a rare species of animal he thought was extinct - but there was no time, and in he climbed, heart racing. And soon enough, certainly, voices sounded in the hallway; Harry's, and that of two other people, then, shortly, footsteps. Footsteps, nearing. And then-

Two men burst in as the door was opened. Well, 'men' might be pushing it; they were barely out of their teens, and trying to compensate for that fact by dressing like businessmen in their mid-thirties. Sherlock scanned them intently, registering facts. "Well, Mister Holmes," the shorter one _dark blonde hair_ said, looking at the bed _grey eyes, never alighting on any one thing_ , "I must say, we're very pleased indeed." _Twitching scar on upper lip from a fight, no corrective surgery._

"I'm not Holmes," John rasped, his voice barely audible.

"I wasn't talking to you."

Sherlock was already stepping out, looking grimly towards them. Clever little boys. Not acting on their own behalf, naturally, but there was something to be said for an enemy that chose quality minions. "What do you want?"

John looked over, acting as if that were a difficult motion.

The boy slowly turned towards Sherlock, a look of amusement on his face. "What makes you think we want anything?"

"This. All of this. You've gone to such elaborate lengths to test me - there must be something you're testing me for."

"Testing?" John asked hoarsely, deliriously.

Without turning to look at him, the boy answered. "Yes, your Mister Holmes is right. As he may already have gathered, we represent the interests of a sovereign nation of no little influence in the Southern hemisphere."

The tension of the situation made it all seem absurd. John had to focus very hard on playing sick, to not giggle at the mental image of an email stating _I am a Nigerian prince with an offer of interest to you_...

Sherlock made no move to acknowledge what the boy was saying, but the boy went on regardless. "In short, this has been something of a prolonged job interview. We have use, in other words, of a consulting detective, although there are some fairly specific demands that must be met." He tilted his head, giving the impression of a youthful turtle. "Happily, Mister Holmes, you meet them all."

"I'm so glad." Sherlock carefully stripped his voice of all emotion.

The boy laughed, his mixed-race dark-skinned henchman laughing along with him (eyebrow piercing recently removed; keenly intelligent green eyes belying his idiot attitude; enjoys appearing to be brainless muscle - the one to watch out for, Sherlock noted). "As well you should," the sandy blonde continued. "You're perfect, Mister Holmes. Our first test showed you to be loyal to your associates, which is something we certainly appreciate. However, _misplaced_ loyalty, or," he shrugged, "too much... attachment... would be a liability. We needed to know that you would not put the interests of your associates," he grinned a little at the word, "before the interests of a case."

"Before me?" John croaked.

Sherlock turned to face this ridiculous messenger. "That's right. And here _you_ are."

"Just came down with something..." John protested, weakly.

Both boys laughed, the emerald-eyed grunt a little more loudly this time, which worried Sherlock somewhat. What a dangerous man found amusing, very rarely was. "That's honestly what he thinks, isn't it? Bless." The blond turned to Sherlock. "We'll give you the antidote once formalities are arranged and you've accepted our employ, of course. We're not _barbarians_."

"Antidote?" John gasped in a breath, coughing painfully.

The boy ignored him. "We must insist, however, that you sign with us before releasing it to you."

Sherlock nodded. "I see. And if I refuse?"

The boy's face fell. He genuinely seemed baffled. "But why would you refuse? We're giving you the opportunity of a lifetime; you will be given access to the inner sanctum of a government few people even know exists. You will have unlimited access to state secrets, and we will present you with a puzzle which has stumped no fewer than three international intelligence agencies."

"In return for which you will let John Watson live."

As if that were a minor consideration, the boy waved his hands dismissively. "And reward you handsomely, of course."

Sherlock gave them his coldest smile. Those, he found, were fairly easy, on the whole. "Well, that sounds like a win-win situation to me."

That certainly got their attention; both boys were now grinning from ear to ear, the taller almost smirking, the expression ill-fitting on his square-jawed face. "What do you say, then?" The blond, talkative one was the first to break this giddy silence, unsurprisingly. Smug bastards, the pair of them. Playing with lives like so many toys.

This little charade had gone on long enough. Sherlock gave them just enough time to congratulate themselves, mentally counting the seconds. Yes, it would be _now_ \- "I say... you can go fuck yourselves."

And then, the clatter of booted feet, the surge of armed policemen at the door; shouts and commands barked from uniformed, efficient mouths. Both teens pulled their weapons, but they were outgunned, and knew it. They went for the chatty one first - of course they would, the imbeciles - restraining him firmly as he struggled, shouting out at Sherlock.

"He'll die now! He'll die for nothing!"

John looked over at Sherlock. "Bloody hell, you didn't tell me I was going to _die_..." he said, shedding any pretense of illness.

"I tried to," Sherlock said, calmly, not really looking in John's direction. That would have been a mistake, right now. "I would have taken the damn thing myself if you would have let me."

John sat up, and immediately regretted it; blood rushed out of his head, leaving him giddy. "I mean, eventually I'm going to have to anyway, right?" He'd die sooner or later, and there was something very funny about that, and... what? He looked around the room, bewildered at the emptiness. Hadn't there just been people here? Oh, yes, the police had taken them.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather it be later than sooner." Not Sherlock's call anymore, of course; not his business, if ever it was. Not that this would stop him. A life without John had proven itself to be... difficult. A world without John was incomprehensible.

John shook his head. Not eating, low blood sugar, sitting up quickly - no wonder he felt odd. And, he realized, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but a pair of pants, and the police were sure to come in again soon. "Er - could you hand me some clothes?" Sherlock was already in the closet, after all, and _that_ should really not be funny. As soon as he looked directly at Sherlock, it ceased to be.

Sherlock did smile at that - ever practical, John. This mundane task was soothing, in its own way; a way to help, in some small measure. The contents of the closet were sparse, but a fairly baggy pair of jeans and a warm-looking (70% wool, 30% polyester) sweater would do nicely. Sherlock threw them over.

John quickly donned the clothes that had been tossed his way. He looked over at Sherlock, then, feeling... odd about the situation. Suddenly, Sherlock was there again - wasn't he?

Sherlock could not stay. Not with John in this state - exhausted and vulnerable, liable to do something he'd later - if not instantly - regret. "I'll answer any questions you have, if you like, or I can leave right now."

John sat down on the edge of the bed again, rubbing his forehead. Sherlock's voice was unemotional, like an aloof waiter explaining menu options. "I'm starving. Can't think so well." Random thoughts were floating around in his head, hitting each other and bouncing off, making odd little patterns.

Sherlock couldn't bear it. More fool him; John wasn't the weak one, here. "I'll make sure they feed you. Before questioning. If I stay any longer right now," he added, feeling every inch as pathetic as he sounded, "I'll do something I'll regret." His hands agreed, twitching impatiently, wanting to be elsewhere.

John looked over at Sherlock. Yes, he could understand regret right now, and his face mirrored the sadness he could sense from Sherlock. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to convey his regret about the entirety of everything unright in the world. Sherlock met his eyes for a long moment. Just as it looked as though that stoic mask might break, however, Sherlock looked away.

"What on Earth could you possibly have to be sorry for." Fault was irrelevant, but if it should be placed, it was surely not with this man, who had just risked his life for himself and his family. Who had done nothing but try to be decent and fair to an indecent man.

John looked down. "I do wish it could have worked." He felt dizzy. Sherlock... was here. They had been together once. He was angry. Yes, that was it... why they couldn't be together.

" _Please_ don't." Not this, not now. It sounded too much like forgiveness. "Get some food."

"Sorry." John looked back over, but Sherlock was looking away.

Simply leaving would be rude and tactless, but that had never bothered Sherlock before. Still, he made an effort at replying, searching for words - any word - that would makes sense, would be even in the least appropriate. There were none, and so he left, walking briskly.

* * *

John watched Sherlock leave, staring at the wall outside of the room for a moment. His phone buzzed. A text message. _Call Sarah. Seemed worried._

John put his face in his hand, telling himself resolutely that crying was not a productive thing to do at this point. He felt strangely empty. The noise of the police entering the room, talking to each other, talking to Harry outside - it all seemed far, far away.

A young policewoman offered him a blanket. John shook his head. "I don't need a blanket. I'm next to a bed, you see." The policewoman made half-hearted attempts at convincing him, but he ignored her, and she soon found something more useful to do - as another policeman came up with a notepad, asking questions John did not want to answer.

John finally managed to escape from the blankets, the questions, the proffered indigestible food, Harry's histrionics (the latter was understandable, but still more than he could take). It was hardly an accomplishment, however, to escape to the quiet, dead neighborhood. Neighbors stared at the commotion from behind draperies, curious little slits of light in the darkness.

He leaned against a lamp-post, closing his eyes. Sarah. Concern. Sherlock. Oh, god. His head was swimming; he hadn't eaten in days, Sherlock didn't eat for longer. How did he do it? The man could deny his body... Sherlock's body. Oh, god, Sherlock's body.

John slid down the lamp-post, sitting at the base, hot, angry tears streaming down his face.

* * *

Safely inside his own rooms, Sherlock allowed the words to roam free in his head. _"I do wish it could have worked"_. Throwing his coat over the arm of a stray chair, he slumped down onto the sofa. _No,_ he thought, _you don't_. The fallacy irked him, as it always did when he heard people use it; doubly so now, pertaining to himself.

 _When you break it off with someone, you do so for a reason. What you wished was for the relationship to end; it would be illogical for you to simultaneously wish it could go on. If you're wishing that circumstances were different, you're asking that the world, or both of us, were different, and then you've changed all the variables, rendering the argument meaningless._

He sank down between the elderly cushions, closing his eyes. He'd cried the last time John said he would leave, but that had been an instinctual reaction, abrupt and powerful. Now that he knew to expect it, it wasn't so hard to control, really.

The door creaked open - he had not bothered to lock it - and Mrs. Hudson's apologetic face peeked in as she knocked. "You're up late then," she said, curiosity and worry layering the words. "I don't suppose you'd like anything to eat - I was just about to make myself..."

"Is there any cheese?" he interrupted, sending her away contentedly. Refusing would only make her linger, and besides, hunger reminded him of John, now.


	4. Chapter 4

John found himself, a short time later, on the Tube. London was calling him, drawing him in like it had done so many times before

What was he to do, once he arrived? He had nowhere to stay. But Harry's place was hardly somewhere to stay, crawling as it was with police and media. Sally seemed to be taking to Harry, if not in the way that the former was wholly expecting, and _that_ was something he could do without seeing.

Well, he knew of at least one place he could go, to could take care of the most pressing of his needs.

About half an hour later, he was ensconced in the corner of a somewhat familiar pub; the low light on the wooden walls was as warm as the air, and he could finally feel some tension drain out of himself. He was so ravenous that the first few bites of the sad, bland curry had gone down rather well; he then began to alternate bites of horrific food with sips of excellent bitter, in the hopes they would balance each other out a touch.

"Oi! You're back."

The voice was not loud, but it was deep and resonant; it nagged at the back of John's mind with near-grasped familiarity. He looked up, and a name immediately came to him. "Frank..."

"You remembered me!" A smile lit the other man's broad, handsome face, and he slid into the booth across from John. He leaned his head to indicate rest of the pub. "Not really my place, this - I was just in the other night because a friend stood me up. But I've come back now and then to see if you'd turn up. Not a regular, they said."

John was disconcerted. There had been a time or two when he had been in a similar position - seeing a bird at some haunt, trying to let her know he was interested and had been looking for her. He had always been shy, stumbling over his words, looking down, sure he was coming across as exactly the kind of creepy bloke guaranteed to turn any sensible woman away. Yet here Frank was, his self-confidence so solid and insurmountable that he spoke without a hint of shyness or hesitation, his dark brown eyes not wavering.

"No, it's just - convenient. I needed a bite."

Frank nodded. "You look like you've been through a bit of hell recently, truth be told. You all right?"

"Fine, now. But yes, it's been a bad week..." John poked at the rubbery curry. He was still hungry, but not enough so to make it palatable.

The smile on Frank's face became, if possible, even more broad. "You _must_ have been hungry, to make this crap edible. Hey, I know a little cafe around the corner from my place - good stuff, open all night. Let me take you there."

The invitation in the man's eyes was for more than food. John knew he should, by all logic and reason, decline politely. But the hunger he felt had taken on new dimensions, and taken some of his sense with it; he found himself smiling back, saying, "Yes, I'd like that," and gathering his coat.

They walked close together, ostensibly due to the cold. "I guess I'm lucky," Frank said, John feeling the voice rumble through the man's body. "I'm going back again in four days. Ran into you just in time."

"Be careful over there," John replied, with feeling. "Just because nothing's happened so far..."

Frank stopped, then, and turned to face John. "Look," he said, "I hope I'm not being a twat coming out with this - but I like you, I do, and I'd like to spend the night with you... if that'd be all right, and all." It was the first moment of uncertainty John had yet seen from the man. John was struck by the man's face - open, kind, honest, with the promise of sensuality and sexuality, his lips full and descending on John's.

His body had the solidity and vitality of a young tree, his arms wrapped around John; his mouth was warm and surprisingly soft, tasting of lager, his lips and tongue dancing with the promise of _more, more_. John was massively aroused by the time they broke for breath.

"I'm sorry," John said, stepping back, "I just came off of... a really bad break up." That's what it was, the banal reality of it all.

Frank nodded, sadness on his face. "If that's what you need."

"It is," John said, quickly.

Frank shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down. "Well - if you change your mind..." He looked back up, hopefully.

John put his hand on the man's face, feeling the stubble. "Take care of yourself."

For the second time that night, he felt like finding a wall and punching it for a while, but he simply stood and watched the man walk off into the night.

* * *

John couldn't say how long he stood there, in the little puddle of light from the streetlamp. He was interrupted from thoughts he could never again remember by the buzzing of his phone. He answered without looking at it.

"John?" It was Sarah. "Sherlock gave me" she hesitated, just a fraction of a second, "your real number. I just wanted to make sure you're all right. Are you at your flat?"

"No," he replied, "I'm... not there." He was completely unable to answer to being 'all right.'

"What happened?" she asked. When he didn't answer immediately, she added, "Would you like to come over? It might be easier to talk in person."

The temptation of sitting in a comfortable couch in a reasonably familiar place was too great to turn down. "Please. I can be there in... say, ten minutes?"

* * *

 _Ten minutes_. Oh _god_. Sarah stared at herself in the mirror, phone still in hand. John was actually coming over. He would come and stand in her hallway, with that ridiculously mournful, _ridiculously_ appealing face, and she would... she would...  
Sarah sighed. What the fuck _would_ she do?

In a way, the resentment had been easier; first John, for not calling, then Sherlock, for... being Sherlock, she supposed. No wonder people kept trying to kill him. Sarah didn't like holding a grudge, but at least grudges were straightforward things, without complications like charmingly handsome, decent men showing up at her flat to talk about their undefined relationship. At 10 PM.

Sarah sighed, heading to the bathroom, picking up her straightening iron and plugging it in. John was the sort of person you instantly liked - rather the opposite of Sherlock, amusingly enough. It might not have been the best idea to date a co-worker, but, well... finding even a tolerably decent man to date in London was enough of a challenge; a sweet, good looking, capable, _and_ decent man? It was far to good to be true, really. And really, in Sarah's experience, 'too good to be true' when it came to men usually translated to 'gay'. Frankly, when Sherlock had come over to apologize, it had been easy to assume... She frowned at her hair, which now looked exactly the same, only slightly flatter. _Well_ , she thought, considering her reflection, _best pick your battles_.

The doorbell rang.

* * *

The hug that welcomed him - John could not tell if it was overly effusive, or if he was overly sensitive. Probably the latter. He pulled back. "Thanks for letting me come by. It's been..." his laugh sounded painfully strained, even to him, "a _really_ odd week."

"Oh no! I mean... yeah... I'm sure... God, what am I thinking; sit down. You look exhausted." Sarah didn't know why she was so nervous. She'd had her tongue in the man's mouth, for god's sake. All right; just the once, and they'd both been fairly tipsy at the time, but even so...

John sat down on the couch gratefully, pulling off his jacket. "Thanks." It was wonderfully warm in her flat. He was underdressed for the weather, as he had left Harry's without much thought, in just the clothes Sherlock had thrown at him and a light jacket atop; he had been thoroughly chilled on the way here.

"Sherlock said..." "Where to..." They both exclaimed. Sarah trailed off, shyly, letting John speak.

"Sorry, you first."

"When I rang him last night," she began, hesitantly, not quite sure how to go about this, "I got the impression things were still not going so well between you. That's a shame." She worried if that came out sounding as fake as it felt; as in 'you're not married? Aww, that's a shame...'

"No... I moved in with my sister after I found out what he did with... you, and your calls." John sighed at the thought of rehashing all of it.

"Oh..." Really, no wonder she'd jumped to conclusions. There _had_ been a falling out, and John _had_ moved out, but not like _that_ , of course - she suddenly noticed John's jacket, held awkwardly in his lap. "Oh, sorry; I'll take that." She took it, hurriedly, glad of something practical to do.

Once John's hands were free, he rubbed his face with them, then leaned back on the couch, looking up at Sarah. "It's just not right, you know, not fair to you. Or me." She _was_ his friend, after all, and such a sweet girl - it wasn't right for her to be, well, Sherlocked.

Keeping her hands busy, Sarah found, did little to prevent her brain working overtime. It was a little much to take in and process; John, Sherlock, whatever it was they'd been doing together... oh, not like that, of course. _That_ was a distracting image indeed. She returned to the lounge feeling flushed, and a little guilty. "What isn't?"

John looked at her - had she not been listening? "You know, redirecting your calls so I didn't get them."

God, that was stupid. Sarah hoped she didn't look as daft as she felt right now. "Right, of course." She had once taken in a very skittish stray cat, and something about John right now, hands in his lap, not knowing quite where to look, reminded her of it. Carefully, she sat down next to him, half expecting him to jump away and run under the sofa. "It was nice of him to apologize, though."

John laughed without humor. "He didn't until I found out, though."

Sarah smiled, searching John's face. She still wasn't quite sure what all this was about. "He's a bit of an odd one, isn't he. Said he'd forgotten about it."

"Forgotten." John shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "He might, at that. Still doesn't excuse... well, doing it in the first place." The smile fell as he looked at Sarah. She didn't seem in the least bit perturbed - she looked calm, composed, a genuine smile on her face. " _You're_ not upset?"

Sarah's smile faded a little. "I _was_! I was furious, I nearly threw him out. But he was..." what was the right word? " _nice_ about it." In rather a mechanical sort of way, truthfully, but clearly trying to make an effort. That was... sweet, she supposed.

John sat up straight. "He came to speak with you?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Sarah said, surprised, "didn't he tell you?"

"He doesn't tell me much, it seems." John was still incredulous. "He came _here_?"

"Yes. Why does that surprise you?"

John shook his head, trying to make the world fall into a reasonable degree of order. He'd have to shake it harder, he decided. "I didn't think he... spoke to people. You know." He looked over at her again. " _Nice_?"

Didn't speak to people? What sort of nonsense was that? "Yeah, I was impressed, actually. When most guys try to apologize, they come off all slick and fake. He was refreshingly honest." A little more than honest, all things considered. But, well, sometimes, that's what you needed. "Blunt, I suppose, but honest."

"Blunt? Sherlock?" John asked, with mock surprise. That was the only part of the story that made sense.

"Refreshing, I thought." Sarah turned, needing something else to do than sit here, anticipating John's next move. And really, there was one thing John never refused, she knew. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, yes, please," John said, with sincerity.

"Thought you might." Smiling, Sarah gave his thigh the sort of pat an aunt might; nothing sexual about it, god forbid, and hurried off into the kitchen. A forgotten glass of wine stood on the counter, half finished, and she drank it, thankfully. Then she put the kettle on. Tea. Yes. Tea would be good.

* * *

Tea, gods, yes. John needed that. He leaned against the couch, feeling disoriented. After the recent events, he supposed some disorientation was normal - he had undergone some substantial mental and physical stress over the last day. He could not stop the thoughts that swirled dizzily around his head.

Sherlock, apologizing. Sincerely - he didn't tell John, so he wasn't doing it to grandstand. Caring for another human being. The thing he had accused the man of being completely incapable of.

If Sherlock was human, what did that make him? Judging, leaving in anger.

All of the love he had shoved away, all of the desire he had squashed.

 _Shit_.

* * *

Sarah returned, eventually, bearing mismatched mugs and tea bags, with some amount of embarrassment. "I'm not much of a housewife, I'm afraid," she mumbled, setting them down directly on the table. She'd never been one to bother with coasters, nor did John, though she sometimes thought she'd noticed him frowning at the unprotected surface askew. No matter; she would have to play it off as charming.

"Good, you'd frighten me. If you were that good at medicine _and_ housekeeping..." John accepted the tea gratefully.

Sarah laughed pleasantly, sipping her tea. This was good, wasn't it; a little amicable silence. Rather... awkward amicable silence, no one as much as mentioning illness, or why John had come here, and why, even now, his thigh was brushing ever-slightly against hers. She bit her lip, taking another sip.

The tea made John feel rejuvenated, human again. He felt he was even capable of polite small talk. "How is the clinic? Sorry I've been away for a few days."

God, work! He'd come here to talk about _work?_ "You didn't miss much. Mrs. Henderson was in again with her imaginary emphysema."

John nodded. "I'll probably go in tomorrow. I wasn't really sick, you know - did Sherlock tell you the story?"

Sarah shook her head, cradling her mug. It really was quite soothing. "No, we just barely spoke on the phone."

John closed his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. It was not a pleasing task. "Well, after I moved out, I got a package at Harry's... my sister's." He outlined the saga as clearly as he could - glossing over the 'Sherlock showing up blitzed off his arse' bit.

As John told his story, Sarah watched him, wide-eyed. It wasn't just what he said; it was the way he told it; like he was describing a night out at the pub. "Well," she said, eventually, "How the other half lives." Other minor percentile, more like. This was normal to John, wasn't it? Risking his life to prove he still had it? There was something a little sad about that, but Sarah couldn't bring herself to feel anything other than envy.

John looked at her, a little sadly. She obviously relished the idea of excitement - but in the abstract way of someone who has read about it, heard about it second-hand, perhaps touched it here and there, but never been plunged into it, buried in it too deeply to breathe. John had - and how fucked up was it that, after knowing how it really went, he still craved it like a drug? "It's a bit bad, isn't it. Hardly a... normal kind of life."

It was all Sarah could do to keep from bursting into laugher; it was like he just bemoaned being filthy rich. "Why would anyone possibly want a 'normal' life?"

"Well... isn't it what we all want?" It was a lame statement, and John knew it sounded like the bullshit it was as soon as it left his lips.

Sarah gave him a look. "You know what I did last night, John? Worked late, come home, ordered a pizza and watched the live special of Corrie. On _tape_. That's a normal life." She didn't even like Corrie; it was just something to do.

John smiled, taking another sip of tea. He would probably be a happier man if that were appealing to him. "I suppose there's something to be said for both sides." He looked at the tea again, which offered nothing but its own tea-like nature by way of answer. Which was answer enough. He took another sip.

That awkward amicable silence again. Sarah smiled, her mind, for whatever reason, going back to the silly ideas she'd had a few days ago. "Listen," she said after a while, a little shyly, "I hope you don't mind about the..." it was a complicated notion to get across by way of a hand gesture, and eventually, she gave up. "What I mean is, some blokes take it the wrong way when you assume they're gay."

John spat out half of a mouthful of tea as the other half went down his trachea. He choked. Sarah made a huge show of apologizing and trying to help and 'I'm so sorry-ing' and 'are you all right-ing'. "No, I'm fine, sorry, just down the wrong pipe..." John gasped, once he was able. What in bloody goddam hell, he fumed to himself, do I say now?

"It's just," Sarah said hurriedly, "when you stopped calling, and then Sherlock came 'round, and the way he was talking about you..." God, she wasn't making this any better, was she? Should have just kept her mouth shut.

John felt flushed. He was probably blushing. "He's different," John muttered, for lack of anything to say. Gay. That G-word had been flitting around his brain, unacknowledged, for weeks, and here it was, broadsiding him at a time when his mental reserves to deal with it were very low.

"You can say that again!" It came out a little too strongly, and Sarah immediately felt silly. All right, so Sherlock wasn't much for social niceties, but from what John had just said, he'd likely saved John's life. You really couldn't fault him for that. And, well, when she'd spoken with him over the phone... "But when I rang him yesterday, and you weren't with him, I understood." John and Sherlock might not be a couple, but not for lack of wanting on Sherlock's part. And John knew; he had to know.

"Yes..." John fiddled with his cup.

"I think it's really sweet, actually. The way you don't mind" Really, how could you not love him? She couldn't blame Sherlock, she really couldn't.

"No," John mumbled. He looked intently at his tea. It still held no answers. It hardly felt right to deny being gay when he had been tangling tongues with another man not half an hour ago. Yet he thought of himself as a normal bloke; he liked women, he liked breasts, all that. Yet here he was, feeling confused about his feelings for another man. No, not another man - _Sherlock_.

"I had a flatmate who fancied me, once. Never said anything about it, just kept making these stupid little gestures. I didn't realize until three years after I'd moved out and was seeing someone else. That's men for you, I suppose." Sarah looked away with a half-smile.

"Yes, we don't always talk well," John replied, thoughtfully.

There was truth in that, Sarah thought, giving John a considered look. Oh, what was life without a little risk? "Well, anyway. I'm really not upset anymore, and I'm like it if we could start over."

Starting over. It was one of the best ideas John had heard all night, excepting the tea. "That's good to hear. I'd like that."

Heart in her throat, Sarah shifted just a little closer, letting the subtle change in her body language do the talking. 'You're an attractive, sweet man,' it suggested, 'and I'd quite like to have sex with you, possibly over a period of time, but certainly tonight', it added. "And you're more than welcome to stay the night," her mouth said, just in case that wasn't clear enough.

Sarah's intent hit him like a Transit. How could he have missed the signals? Was he utterly dense, or just tired? "I'd be grateful if I could sleep on your couch," he replied, as if that was what was on offer. If one thing could make this situation more disgustingly complicated, it would be sleeping with Sarah.

Well, that was that. Smiling quickly, hoping the blood rushing to her cheeks wasn't too evident, Sarah nodded. "You know where the blankets are." _From all the other times you spend the night without sleeping with me_ , she didn't add. Much as it felt like it right now, her frustration wasn't his fault. Maybe she should just give in and by a vibrator. She blushed harder at the thought; unusually bold, for her. Maybe some of John was rubbing off on her, if not in the way she'd much preferred.

"Thank you." John didn't know if words could properly communicate how much me meant that.

"I'm in early tomorrow, but there's a spare key you can borrow. You can give it back when I see you back at work," she added, somewhat deflated.

John nodded. "I don't know how early I can wake up, but I'll be in when I do."

Sarah waved him away. "Don't worry about it. Come in when you can." The man did look like he'd been through... pretty much exactly what he'd described. He'd earned a break.

John just barely remembered to send a quick text to Harry - _At a friend's, won't be back tonight_ \- before falling into a very deep sleep indeed.

* * *

Safely in her bedroom, Sarah closed the door and tried not to think of think of anything other than sleep, how to get in and out of the bathroom without John seeing her naked - she really should have bought that robe she'd seen in H&M - what to have for breakfast, and when she would have time to do the laundry. 'There's a good looking man sleeping in my lounge, and I know what his mouth feels like on my breasts' was doing nothing for her, except in every way it shouldn't.

Undressing, she pulled back the sheets and slipped in under them, body flushed and hot with unfulfilled potential. There was no way she'd get to sleep now. There was one way to resolve this, of course, but it seemed rather rude, with a houseguest, so instead, she bit her lower lip and stared at the ceiling. Really, if this was what Sherlock had to deal with, Sarah felt the man should be allowed a few eccentricities.

* * *

Sarah was gone when he woke, as she said she would be. John felt better after a shower, then marginally worse after dressing in the clothing from the night before - but he didn't have many options; even if he were desperate enough to wear women's jeans, Sarah was several sizes smaller and hardly dressed to his taste. He did head to the clinic, making sure to pick up a formless small breakfast pastry along with his coffee to give to Sarah, by way of thanks. The routine of work was eerily normal - and therefore pleasingly restful, all things considered. He needed the break - to think.


	5. Chapter 5

John was not quite sure where to go after work. Harry's place was the sensible option. Yet he did not want to go there, not now; he wanted to stay in London and wander a bit. Which he did, until some immutable law of physics deposited him on a particular well-worn stone doorstep.

The front door of 221B looked hauntingly familiar; an integral part of his life recently, not seen for a week and change, suddenly back in front of him again, as if the time away had been a drug-fueled dream. He put his key into the lock, the door clicking open quietly.

The surreal feeling was only enhanced by the music he heard once he stepped inside. A violin piece, in a minor key, hauntingly beautiful. Sherlock's crap radio couldn't produce sound quality this good - was it Mrs. Hudson? He had never heard music from her rooms before; it was not in her nature, to allow what was done in her rooms to bleed outside of them. No, the music was definitely coming from above.

John mounted the stairs, feeling like he weighed three times normal and must step carefully to avoid breaking the wood. He therefore walked upwards slowly and quietly, as the music grew louder.

He stopped at the doorway to the main room. Sherlock sat in the middle, silhouetted against the window in a perfect three-quarters profile. The violin that he normally plucked at, aimlessly and tunelessly, was tucked under his chin and was in full song. The music throbbed and soared, ripping his heart out of his chest and swinging it to heights and depths it had never before contemplated.

John forgot to breathe.

The last note ended. Sherlock drew it out elegantly until it died away, then turns to smile tiredly at John.

John swallowed "Didn't know you played." His voice felt harsh and intrusive after that magnificent sound.

"Not often, in front of others." Sherlock lowered the violin, as always, unsure what to do with it when it wasn't serving its intended purpose. He let his finger play along the strings, aimlessly, soundlessly. _Fiddling._ How amusing.

"You should. You're amazing."

Sherlock shrugged, ignoring the little swell of joy that always followed any praise from John.

"I... hope you don't mind me coming by." Why had he come by?

"Not at all, you're always welcome." That was the simple truth of it; John was always welcome. Having him in the room somehow changed it, which was ridiculous and impossible, but then again, so was John, in so many ways.

John looked down, not sure where to start or where to go. "I crashed on Sarah's couch last night." He paused, adding ruefully, "You probably deduced that already."

Such unimportant details in the grand scheme of things. Sherlock smiled, briefly, plucking at the strings. "Yes."

"She told me about you going over there, and apologizing... look, should I go through this, or you tell me what you've figured out already and I'll fill in the rest?" John tried out a tentative half-smile.

"I'm not psychic, John." There was no need to be harsh; John very clearly did not understand the mechanics of it, so Sherlock wasn't. "I know you went to see her," he continued, not unkindly, "and I know you did something you regret, but the whys and hows escape me, as they often do with you."

John nodded, then plunged in. "It was good of you to go see her. She's not angry anymore, which is a good start. And so I suppose... I shouldn't be either." He sighed. "It was still a shit thing you did, but it's been done, and... things have happened... with us... because of it, and I don't regret those, even if I'm upset about how they came about." John paused, shaking his head. "Am I making any sense?"

Turning more fully towards John, Sherlock put the violin down. "A little, yes." _But I don't know why you're saying it_. Had he come here to moralize? He wouldn't gloat; that wasn't in his nature - what then? Pity? Some misplaced sense of chivalry?

John looked down at his uncomfortable shoes. Sherlock's face was unreadable, as always. "I'm not sure what the right thing is to do. I feel it's vitally important for me to find that out."

Though reading John could be difficult, his unspoken words may as well have been written in neon across his face. _If I Am Not A Good Person, I Might As Well Not Be Alive_ , it glowed, and, impossibly, _I Still Love You_. Oh god. This was _not_ helpful. With a deep sigh, slowly, Sherlock got up. "John... Stop acting like you've done something wrong."

John looked up, sharply. Had Sherlock deduced... well, it didn't matter, did it. _John_ knew what he had done. John had erred, as humans do - as Sherlock had. Could he forgive himself and not Sherlock? _No_.

Sherlock took just two steps forward. It would not do to get too close, but John, he knew, would prefer closeness. _As do you_ , he told himself, petulantly. Self-deception was only rarely useful. "You acted like a human being." The implication 'which I'm not' hung in the air between them. John had been right. Sherlock was... different; apart. It was part of what made him good at what he did, as much as the deduction or forensic skill. He had allowed himself to forget that, temporarily, but he could not do so forever. It was better, this way. Really. And yet...

"I'm sorry," John replied, quietly. "Last night was not a good night, but there's no excuse." He took a breath. "I've missed you. Terribly. I want to trust you again."

What would be best for his sanity, Sherlock knew, was to make some cold remark and drive John out of here for good, but that was not going to happen. If John came to offer scraps, Sherlock would wolf them down hungrily, licking his fingers afterward and beg for more. If John left again tomorrow, or the day after, or in a month, Sherlock would always welcome him back and take him in. He couldn't not. There was nothing else. He was weak. _Less_ than human.

It did not matter then, what this was and was not. If there was something - anything - on offer, Sherlock would take it.

This, however, was almost cruel; salvation just out of his reach.

"I don't know how to do that."

John nodded, leaning on the doorframe. "It's hard, when you can learn everything about me by looking at an ink stain on my thumb, but I can't tell a thing but what you choose to share."

"Anything you want to know, I'll tell you." Remaining calm took effort. If John could see this; truly understand every aspect of it, then possibly... possibly...

John chuckled. "It's the things I wouldn't even think of asking." Sherlock could take a human and see them, inside and out, in a glance. John could only stumble blindly, not knowing Sherlock any better than he knew... himself.

How could John _laugh_ at this? Was he truly just here to gloat? Rub Sherlock's face in what he could not have? "What then? What do you expect me to do?"

Something wasn't right, something he had just said had made Sherlock unhappy - that much, at least, John could tell. His face fell. "I... I don't expect you to do anything. I suppose... Well, it's down to me - if I can accept you as you are, or if I want you to be someone you're not. I couldn't think of anything but you last night. You make normal people look dull and monochrome."

One foot in front of the other. Sherlock took a halting step forwards, swallowing. Any closer, and he would be breaching into John's personal space. "I can't help you make that choice." _Though I want to. I want to grab you and keep you and get inside your head so you'll think staying is your idea._ He wouldn't, of course. Couldn't. John was what kept him human.

John had to decide; he could not sit there, both of them dangling in limbo. He stepped forward, into the room. "Well, I reserve the right to say you're acting like a shit if I think you are, and you have to right to tell me to fuck off if it's none of my business." John swallowed. "I do want you." That was what it all came down to. Sherlock was frozen to the spot, lips parting, almost leaning forward, and John stretched out his arms, tentatively, sure that Sherlock would bark something about not being an idiot.

There it was; his safe haven. His reprieve. His absolution. Sherlock stepped forward, stepping between John's outstretched arms, cupping John's face in his hands, gently, just looking at him. Here. Now. Understanding. It was all that mattered. It was everything.

John shivered. He should not be having such a powerful response to the touch. It wasn't healthy, physically or emotionally, but he _needed_ it, as much as air. He held on to Sherlock's arms, afraid he might fall otherwise.

Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his forehead against John's. Warm skin. Contact. He'd never felt this... _at home_ before, and really, did it matter how long or how much or when or even why; so long as John was here? Closing his eyes, he could almost imagine John had never left. Exhaling uneven breaths, Sherlock let his thumbs caress John's cheeks, and allowed himself to _feel_.

Hands on his face. It was a simple enough contact, one John had felt before, with various hands. None of those had been anything like this.

Like the door, Sherlock had been away from his life - and now was back again. The door had not created a door-shaped hole with its absence, however. The door had not invaded his dreams and poked insidiously into his waking thoughts. The door was not gorgeous, and fantastically intelligent, and frustrating, and challenging, and as he was realizing, absolutely essential in his life. He did not want to take the door and hold it and kiss it and suck it and rub it and...

Well, at some point, metaphors had to go.

When they did, all that was left was Sherlock. His face, his warmth, his smell, so close...

That was the thing about feelings, why Sherlock so seldom gave them free reign. Seldom? Really, had he _ever_ , before John? Not counting childhood indiscretions? When you let go, there was no going back. That was the thing. Sherlock's hands moved to John's hips, fingers splaying, feeling the solid flesh and bone. He did not trust himself to speak.

John very slowly pressed his lips to Sherlock's, like he was tasting a potent alcohol and needed to be careful, lest he end up falling-down drunk. Sherlock was moving slightly quicker, though still very slowly and methodically; tasting John's lips, feeling them with his own. This was not a good idea - John was becoming aroused already, and they were still making the first tentative steps in communicating again - sex would only complicate things. But his body was not listening, and he started to rub Sherlock's lips with his tongue.

The deep visceral thrill of John's tongue in his mouth; that was too much. Too much, bordering on not enough. Sherlock sucked at it, ravenously, opening his mouth in welcome. This, at least, he could draw in; selfishly hoard.

With a greeting like that, John could only make one response. He slid his own tongue in, greedily pulling Sherlock close. Greed was the only word that fit - this was likely not the right course of action for either of them, but he _wanted_ it too much to step away.

Close; yes. Closer still - Sherlock pressed up against John, wrapping his arms around him, deepening the kiss. No need to rush this; it would be over soon enough. Best keep it slow, if no less passionate. Drag it out as long as possible.

This slow tempo would simply _not_ work. John was feeling over a week of pent-up frustration and desire, stirred by too many people, but all pointing towards Sherlock. He kissed ferociously, rubbing Sherlock's back, running one hand up to the back of Sherlock's head, pulling the man closer.

Sherlock gave in; of course he gave in, whimpering with a rush of added desire. He had almost forgotten; this was not his to control. It never had been.

John pushed them both back towards the sofa, running his hand under Sherlock's shirt. He needed this, needed flesh, needed sex - _now_. Sherlock stumbled backwards, pressing back against John's touch. John tore off his own jacket on the way to the couch; once they were there, he started pulling off Sherlock's shirt, still kissing the man _hard_.

Logistics, now. The ridiculous jumper Sherlock had tossed at John the night before could go; it was of no use, and Sherlock pulled it off and tossed it away. John's belt, however, served the useful purpose of a means by which John could be pulled closer, and so Sherlock did. More closeness. Skin on skin.

John pushed Sherlock's shirt away and started to suck at that perfect neck, leaving red marks. It wasn't enough. He started to pull open Sherlock's trousers, needing _more_. Sherlock's hands were on his hips, his back arching as he moaned quietly. That was simply too much stimulation. John tore Sherlock's trousers down, licking and biting at the man's irresistible nipples.

Pleasure mixed deliciously with pain, shooting through Sherlock's chest, drawing out moans and deep, dark sounds. He kneaded John's hips, desperately, hands moving further back, needing more pliable flesh; the firm, solid feel of John's ass in his hands.

John's hands brushed Sherlock's cock on their way back from pulling down the man's trousers. The feel of smooth skin over hard erection took over John's brain - Sherlock's cock, so hot and ready; John took it in his mouth, sucking in as much as he could with a moan. Yes, he needed this, more than air - Sherlock in him, the taste so familiar, so _right_.

Sherlock nearly wailed, his hips twitching, hands aimlessly rubbing John's shoulders. Hell, just the _smell_ of the man was arousing; all this was not so much a feast as a binge, nearly nauseating in its richness.

John dragged his lips up and down Sherlock's shaft, lashing its tip with his tongue; he needed to feel Sherlock react to him, needed to make him moan more, louder. John's hands squeezed Sherlock's hips almost painfully hard, shoving Sherlock's cock deeper into his mouth.

Pain, Sherlock knew - by experience, even - was dulled in memory, and it seemed the same was true of pleasure, to some degree. He did not remember being made to shiver, ragged breaths or exhales that sounded more like moans, but here they were, wrung out of him as he held on to John's shoulders. Funny thing, memory.

John ran his tongue all over that weeping cock, tasting its salty muskiness, relishing the flavor of _Sherlock_ , then swallowed it as completely as his throat would allow. He gagged a little, but that was nothing to worry about, something happening to someone else, far away.

Sherlock's hips still twitched, though he did not thrust; no need for that, with John in control. Breaths and moans were a different matter though, under Sherlock's control entirely - right now, it was the only sound he knew how to make.

John clamped his lips tightly around the shaft, moving his head up and down, stroking Sherlock's cock, loving it with his mouth. His hands moved down to squeeze Sherlock's buttocks, helping to draw the cock in and out of his mouth. He closed his eyes, a look of blissful intensity taking over his face.

Even if he wanted to, and perhaps he did now - it was hard to tell with all this influx of sensation - Sherlock could not even begin to move his hips in John's steady grip. Riding on a steady, slowly rising wave of pleasure, his climax took him nearly by surprise as he stared at John's face.

The bitter taste of Sherlock's come was familiar, perfect, everything John needed. He swallowed it greedily; even after Sherlock was spent, he still licked and sucked, teasing out every drop, licking the cock clean. Sherlock stroked his back, what passed for a stomach with him heaving - he was skinner than John remembered, a fact there was no time for in John's mind right now. He finally let go of Sherlock's cock with his mouth, moving upwards for a deep kiss.

Sherlock returned the kiss with fervor, holding John close. Everything about the man radiated desire; potential, pent-up energy. Pulling back, flushed with heat and wild ideas, Sherlock met John's eyes. "I like it when you're in control." He moved closer, licking John's ear as he whispered into it "When you fuck me hard. When you take me."

John groaned in desire. He wanted nothing more than to do that, bury himself in Sherlock, but... "Hurt you last time." It was hard to speak, but John gasped out the words.

So that was why he'd held back, since then. Understandable, perhaps; Sherlock had been forced to see a doctor eventually - by John, it should be noted - and though there was no lasting or permanent damage, the condescending talk on 'safety' and the irritating pamphlets Sherlock had refused to take home had been something of a trial for both of them (all three, if one included the doctor). With a huff of exasperation, Sherlock tried again. "I liked that, too." Not so much a lie as a modified truth - but John, he knew, would want specifics. So: "Not the pain. But that you let yourself go." Sherlock had looked into it; there were things one could do, precautious to take. He'd gotten as far as ordering a custom bottle; something portable, for John to keep, just before they'd split up. "Doesn't have to hurt."

John suddenly realized what he had seen when he walked in - a small, clear bottle, out of place, that he had filed in the back of his mind as part of 'things to think about later.' But Sherlock did nothing unintentionally - he had put it there, for John to see, a bottle of what must be lubricant. John put two and two together - the extent of his maths skills, in his state of excitement - and scrabbled for the bottle.

The bottle - Sherlock had taken it out, considering alternative uses, leaving it on the table; he'd forgotten! And now, the realization in John's eyes, the knowledge of what was to come... Sherlock nearly mewed, spreading his legs and arching his hips.

John grabbed the small bottle, pulling at his own trousers as he returned. Sherlock watched him, open-mouthed, spreading his legs a little wider. John kicked his trousers away, then settled between Sherlock's legs. His cock was hard, almost painfully so, and leaking precome, but this required time. He coated his fingers with the lubricant and slipped one inside of Sherlock; it slid in almost without resistance. This was quality stuff. He leaned in for a kiss.

Sherlock kissed back hungrily, rocking against John's finger, moaning again, rather loudly. No matter; nothing mattered, except John's fingers in him, and the feel of him, so close and _inside_ , and slick and wonderful.

So tight, so hot - John slipped in a second finger, pushing in and out, gasping. He might come from just this. His erection pressed against Sherlock's leg, leaving a smear of sticky precome.

That was well enough, but not what Sherlock truly wanted. Impatiently, he rubbed his legs against John's swollen cock, rocking against the fingers inside him. John slipped in one more; pulsing all three in and out, spreading Sherlock, groaning into his mouth, and _yes_ ; that was it, so close, if not perfection yet, not just yet! Sherlock's hips thrust eagerly, his moans almost words now. _John_ , possibly, and _yes_ , and _now_ , and all those silly little absolutely life-supporting things.

There was only so long a human could wait, with this stimulation, and John was at that limit. He pulled out his fingers, covering his own cock with lubricant. Sherlock was reduced to begging, his moans more like sobs.

John slipped inside - father than he intended. The lubricant was amazingly slick, and he slid into Sherlock's tight heat so easily, so smoothly...

"Ah!" Sherlock closed his eyes, throwing his head back. _This, yes, more, now, please, God that I know doesn't exist; let there be more!_

John could not help pushing in farther. Sherlock's hips tilted to encourage him, and he slid in all the way, taking Sherlock's mouth again. Sherlock's every exhale was a whimper. He moved with John, kissing with enthusiasm, and - well, this would not last. John grabbed Sherlock's hips, pounding hard, gasping at the sight of the body he was pushing into, Sherlock's magnificent body, his face blissful.

Words were not enough, but they were _something_ ; something beyond breath and hands and body to communicate. "Yes..." Sherlock choked, catching his breath.

"Yes..." John panted, sweating, feelings of bliss and love swelling inside of him. Sherlock sucked at his neck, clinging to him as John pounded hard and fast, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock, his tongue plumbing the depths of the other man's mouth.

Just this; just this now; John's skin and tongue, and lips, and cock inside him, and smooth slickness, and pleasure-like-pain, and pain-like-pleasure. Sherlock clung to him, kissing back in equal measure. Thoughts were gone, blissfully; in their wake, this moment and only this, the two of them, bodies, heartbeats, pure sensation.

John felt his orgasm swelling inside of him, and he pounded harder, faster, feeling that he would drive both of them straight through the sofa, gasping into Sherlock's mouth.

There was hardly any pain at all, really. Sherlock whimpered, luxuriating in John's utter control, quieting as he felt John's muscles tighten, knowing his orgasm was building. Yes, there it was; a quiet whimper, and then...

John came hard, burying his face into Sherlock's neck; his mind was gone, floating on waves of pleasure and heat and moans and gasps of Sherlock's name and petitions to deities who might as well be Sherlock, his universe, all there was, this skin and this warmth and this body with its beating heart and its _yes_.

Sherlock held John tightly, stroking his back and rocking a little with the final thrusts. He felt warm and sated, needing to hold on to that; to the man bonelessly collapsed on top of him.

"Oh... god..."

Still stroking, Sherlock just held him, breathing quietly. When John slid out with a gasp, Sherlock hardly felt it; individual sensations were a little beyond him, right now.

John rested his head on Sherlock's chest, just breathing; he quivered with the aftereffects of orgasm - the physical exhaustion, the mental exhaustion, feeling nothing but intense need for the man he lay atop. Sherlock kissed his hair, wrapping his arms around him, and suddenly, John realized he was staring at an open door. "We left the door open," he muttered, unwelcome visions of Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade coming by dancing unpleasantly in his head.

"No one is in," Sherlock replied, lazily, "and no one is likely to call." He stroked John's back, trying to keep rationality and thoughts away just a little longer. They were so few and far between, these calm little eyes in the storm.

John sighed. Perhaps he had rushed the post-reconciliation sex, but one thing was now abundantly clear. "Love you."

That bore no thinking at all. With a deep exhale, Sherlock felt his whole body relaxing. Every part of him. It was all right. All was well again. "You must know I love you too," he replied, quietly.

John caught his breath - he had not thought Sherlock capable or desirous of using that word.

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, stretching a little* "Words can be useful sometimes."

John kissed Sherlock's chest, then rose slightly; their mutual stickiness was starting to chafe. "Didn't think you were big on those."

"I'm not. But like I said, they have their uses." There were things John needed to know, and this was one of them. It was that simple. He only wished he had realized before. Not that words alone would have been enough, of course. Sherlock's eyes half-shut. He could fall asleep like this, really. Not that he wanted to.

"I think you communicate better without them, sometimes," John murmured, thoughtfully, looking down at Sherlock.

Even this, John understood. Swelling with utter devotion, Sherlock pushed John's sweat-soaked hair away from his face. "Will you stay?" He asked, quietly. _No expectations_

John nodded. "Of course." There was nothing but Sherlock anymore, and the sooner he stopped fighting that, the better off he was. "Don't know who will be happier about that, me or Harry."

"Me," Sherlock said, almost inaudibly.

That was utterly unexpected, and John kissed Sherlock with fierce intensity.

The final barrier fell. Sherlock reciprocated eagerly, shaking just a little, his eyes moist, but exhausted as he was in so many ways it was all one, and nothing to note in particular.

John rested his head on Sherlock's stomach for a moment - a stomach that was even hollower than he remembered. "You're skinny. More so than usual."

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose."

"You haven't been eating."

And what of it? Sherlock shrugged again, not wanting to talk about it. Food was food. You ate it or you didn't. Useful, certainly, but nothing like... well.

"I'll take you out." John sighed into the too-concave stomach.

"All right." Food was food, but John and food was an altogether more interesting combination. Despite his laid-back reply, Sherlock felt a quiet stir of enthusiasm.

"After I take a shower and change." John hiked himself up, acutely aware of the semen, sweat, and lubricant congealing on his body. "Any place that would accept either of us looking like this is asking for ptomaine."

The thought of John going anywhere, even just up the stairs, gave Sherlock an irrational stab of pain, which surely couldn't be normal, but that was feelings for you. He tried to smile, instead, letting John go, reluctantly.

John dragged himself to feet, reluctantly, and stumbled towards his own room. "You didn't throw out my clothes?" he asked.

Sherlock's lips twitched. John's room had become a blind spot. He had to pass it to get to the upstairs bathroom, so without thinking, Sherlock had begun to use the downstairs toilet, even washing by ways of its ancient sink once or twice just so he wouldn't have to go up there. Childish, maybe. But John had come back. It was a little, Sherlock supposed, like keeping the cage of an escaped bird open in case it should have a change of heart, and decide that yes, on reflection, it _did_ prefer living behind bars. "No," he said.

* * *

John looked out over what he could only assume was the water - something liquid and soothing called the Thames, whatever else was in there. He pulled in a deep, cold breath, shivering with something unrelated to the weather. The dinner had been lovely, they had touched hands and talked about nothing, they had looked into each other's eyes and acted like a pair of sappy teenagers. It was all still so raw, so fragile, and this moment was beautiful, close, not to be ruined. But he couldn't keep this to himself. He could still see Sherlock in front of him, pupils dilated, eyes wild, mind flopping around like a fish on land. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock turned to look at him, trying for a genuine smile. "Yes?"

John took another deep breath, forcing the words out. "Look - alcohol, your godawful patches, cigarettes, weed - I can deal. Harder stuff, though..."

Relaxing a little, Sherlock put his hands in his pockets, looking out over the water again. It was a chilly night; their breaths, warmed by the heat of the guts from which they emerged, puffed out in the form of little white clouds, converging as they floated out over the surface of the river. "Oh. _That._ "

"Yes." John found he was tight-lipped, angry, and he gave voice to why. "You have a magnificent brain. Don't fuck it up."

"I don't really do that anymore."

John frowned. "A couple of weeks ago..."

"That was different."

John looked over at Sherlock, then back over the Thames. Different. He had heard that so many times, from so many people. Starting with his own sister. Every time was _different_.

Sherlock sighed. Why all this need for explanation? Things were what they were, and John had already made it clear he excepted the state of things, so why... well, he was _John,_ that was why. "I get... bored."

"I don't keep you from boredom." John laughed bitterly, remembering Sherlock shooting smiley faces in the wall, announcing, _I'M BORED!!_

Sherlock turned sharply, fixing John with a stare. "But you do. You do distract me when I'm working," His lips twitched, involuntarily. "But even more so when I don't." When his thoughts built and built, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but churn; when there was nothing for Sherlock's mind to do but turn inwards, on itself and chew madly at itself like a trapped animal. Did John know; could he even realize what those had been like, before he'd been there? "I... _need_ that."

John nodded. They had certainly... changed their relationship to each other, since then.

"Don't think it's like that; I quit before I met you."

John bit his lip. Was that what it was about? He made Sherlock go _back_ to the drugs?

Sherlock looked at him, gently. "My choices are my own." He had not blamed John for leaving, and would not blame him if he did again. John was not the cause of anything. Sometimes a solution, a patch to keep other, more dangerous addictions at bay, true. But that was all on Sherlock.

John nodded, still not fully sanguine.

Sherlock couldn't help it - it was the way John looked, what he said by not saying it, what he didn't say - cupping his face much like he had earlier in the evening, Sherlock slowly moved in for a kiss.

John closed his eyes, kissing Sherlock back, gently. This was enough, for now. He had brought it up, it was in the open. Plenty of time. They had nothing but time.


	6. Chapter 6

The way home was long and cold and dark, and utterly comfortable. Which, of course, made Sherlock wonder what would eventually break this amicable mood. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps that was good.

You never really got snow in downtown London; even when it snowed, the flakes would last about as long as an unattended ten pound note, or, should they linger, gathered in clumps indistinguishable from grit or dirt. Still, the effect, as it fell, was rather pretty. Sherlock watched the white specks falling, considering his situation. John was a warm, close presence by his elbow, and a warm, safe presence in his heart, but times like these would come again. Sherlock would let him down; they would argue, there would be... complications. There always was. There was a way to remedy that, at least to some extent, but the consequences were unpredictable.

Sherlock generally didn't like what he could not predict. Well. Unless you counted John, of course. John, who noticed the subtle change in Sherlock's mood and adjusted himself to it; his sparse words of conversation kinder, his body language more casual. Even as they came inside, going through all the motions of coming-in-from-the-cold (in more ways than one, he supposed), John kept his distance, giving Sherlock the space he needed. That helped. It always did, and, well, that was it really, wasn't it?

And so, after a few moments of amicable silence, Sherlock cleared his throat and met John's eyes, when he had his attention.

"Mm?" John had just started to settle into a book, feeling the comforting familiarity of their usual genial, quiet evenings settle in.

"Could I have a... moment?"

"You need some time by yourself?" John put his book down. He had to admit that, after everything, it was a reasonable request, and he was certainly willing to bugger off for a bit.

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "There's... something I wanted to discuss."

"Oh - yes, go ahead."

Looking away, Sherlock fumbled in his pocket, meeting John's eyes as he withdrew his hand. "You mentioned feeling uncomfortable about the fact that I can deduce things about you, while you have no corresponding power over me." It was not true, of course; John had far more power over Sherlock than Sherlock could ever hope to have over him, but John would not understand that. Possibly never.

John shrugged. "It is what it is." He would never be Sherlock, and he was coming to terms with that.

"I have a suggestion that might... even things out a bit. Not entirely, but to some extent. Would you be interested?" The effort of keeping his hands and voice from shaking with nervousness manifested, as it usually did, in a mask of apparent supreme confidence.

John worked his mouth. "I can't imagine..." Intense curiosity was starting to build. Even things out? What could that possibly mean?

Sherlock opened his hand and held it out, revealing what lay within. His hands were perfectly still, like John's, during the thrill of a chase. This, however, was a chase Sherlock did not want to lose.

John frowned at the small metal objects. "Are those handcuff keys?"

Impressive. Then again, he'd seen them close by not long ago, hadn't he? The observation skills Sherlock knew John had were asserting themselves quite nicely. "I know it's not your 'thing'," inverted quotes flew about the place as Sherlock spoke, "but it needn't be like that. I do have a pair of those, and I'd like you to have the key. And for that to mean whatever you'd like it to mean." There. It was said. No immediate reaction from John, but they usually took a while coming. Sherlock certainly did not allow himself to relax.

John looked up at Sherlock, feeling odd thoughts move around and settle into place in his head. They made... a certain strange sense. Dominant in life, submissive in bed - it was a common combination.

This, however, was not a good sign. Hesitation. Doubt? Why was the man _always_ so infuriatingly difficult to read! Was this it - were things worse again, now? Had this entire day been a waste of time; a painful, useless throwback? Sherlock felt his mask slipping, like the keys he was still holding.

John took the keys, as they were dangling uncomfortably, and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Don't know if I'll do right by them, but I'll try." He felt ten kinds of awkward. This wasn't his thing, really. He liked fucking, and never much went for decorating it up with power plays and games. He had tried, in the past, but his heart really wasn't in it. It made him feel... old, stodgy, trying to keep up with those newfangled kid things.

 _Oh._ This was the reward; what made John what he was; eternal, astonishing surprise. Sherlock's smile flickered on and off, his breath hitching. He squeezed John's hand in return. "Well... good." The understatement of the fucking century.

John nodded, putting the keys in his pocket, for lack of anything else to do with them. All of the goings-on of the last few days were starting to settle on his head, and the weight was crushing.

Sherlock leaned over to kiss John's forehead, then sat back, finding a book and settling down to read it, disregarding the way the letters seemed to flow together in front of his eyes, like day-old London snow. _It's over now_ , he told his reluctant body, _shaking is no longer required_.

"Thanks," John said, awkwardly. He needed to say _something_ ; this was a very open and vulnerable thing for Sherlock to confess to, to bare, and it needed to be addressed. He couldn't just sit there like a twat. Despite the fact that he seemed to be doing exactly that.

"Hm?" Sherlock looked up, torn out of his reverie. "Oh. Yes. That's... fine." Why was it so hard to appear to be normal? He had never really had the knack. Then again, he'd never much cared, before.

John sat back in his chair, looking out the window at the bustle of humanity scuttling through pools of lamplight. He didn't pick his book back up; he felt impossibly old, impossibly tired. He glanced over at Sherlock - the dim light made his already-youthful face look even younger. A boy, really - a boy with an amazing talent, but no less a youth for that. John felt dirty, an old pederast violating an innocent, privy to secrets he had no right to know.

Perhaps, Sherlock reflected, this _was_ normal? Surely they could make their own definition, if they wanted to. Certainly, he felt happier and more at peace than he had ever thought possible. That had to count for something. He noticed John stifle a yawn out of the corner of his eye and turned towards him. "It's been a long day. You should get some sleep."

John looked up at Sherlock's face; it was completely alert and sanguine. "You're not tired yet."

"No..." There was something he wasn't quite picking up here, Sherlock knew, but this was all about emotions, which was not his thing to begin with, and John, which, while his, could be like a brick wall at times. This was certainly one of them.

* * *

John nodded, then looked down. He was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He stood, feeling twice as old as he was. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him; keen, interested, ever-observing. Of course Sherlock wasn't tired, John thought. Impossibly energetic, impossibly vital.

He walked to Sherlock's room... perhaps it would be presumption to sleep there, but it was close, and familiar, and he needed both of those right now. He shed his clothing once inside. He had left his sweats at Harry's - he'd have to go back there tomorrow to get his things, and endure her questioning. It would be cold, sleeping nude - well, alone, it would be. He would be plenty warm with Sherlock there, but who knew when the man would go to bed next?

This was all too much effort to think about, and so he crawled under the covers, naked. It _was_ a little cold, but he was too tired to care. His body, as it tended to do when his brain was no longer in control, had given him an erection, just on the off chance he might need it. He fell asleep with his hand curled around it, protectively.

* * *

With John safely off to bed - Sherlock's bed, which shouldn't be important but was - Sherlock smiled to himself and settled down to read a bit more. Though the letters had gone back to making sense, he nevertheless soon found he could not concentrate. Thoughts of forensic pathology shifted out of focus, replaced by images of cold metal on wrists and John's hands, holding down his own... after twenty odd unproductive minutes, he gave up, and headed towards the bathroom to begin the mundane rituals of 'bedtime'.

When, shortly afterward, he reached the bedroom, the sight that met him pushed all other thoughts aside. John did not wake when Sherlock undressed - hesitating when he was down to his underpants, but discarding those too, eventually - nor when Sherlock climbed in beside him, settling in next to John's warmth and sighing contentedly.

* * *

A weak ray of early-morning sun woke John. He was in a familiar bed, familiar arms around him, a familiar face inches from his. A dumb smile crossed his face as he contemplated his bizarre dream.

Oh.

There Sherlock was, smiling at him, lazily. John rubbed his own face. Shithell, it had been no dream. "Morning..."

"Morning." Sherlock's voice was deep and just as lazy as his smile. He _felt_ lazy; languid, content with the world. That was different.

John sat up, stretching, popping a joint or two. Yet here they were, together, in one bed. "Feels almost domestic, back here again."

Leaning back, Sherlock watched him, propped up on one arm. It was a sight worth enjoying. "Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"Feels all right, I guess," John replied, thoughtfully.

"And how are you feeling?"

"Almost human." A wry smile took over John's face. It would take some time to process everything that had happened.

That smile was infectious. "You're one up on me, then," Sherlock mumbled playfully, stretching.

"Hey, now..." John frowned. He had spent a great deal of time regretting saying that, and it was not something to joke about.

Oh, how ridiculous. Fun was fun, and Sherlock found himself in an unusually good mood today. That was worth making the best of while it lasted. Grinning, he cut John off with a kiss, thinking two moves ahead in terms of what the next half hour or so might bring. Well, call it twenty minutes; he really was in a _very_ good mood!

John kissed back, gently, pulling Sherlock close. This was more like it. This was a proper morning. Sherlock seemed to agree, going with the pull, kissing back in kind. John rubbed Sherlock's back, slowly, sensually, delighting in his ability to just do this again - feel that warm, lovely body under his hands.

Sherlock ran his hand down John's side, landing at his hip. Smooth skin, a solid body - so very real, all of it. Something to relish, that.

John rolled onto his back, pulled Sherlock close to lie atop him. He couldn't get enough of the physical sensation of _Sherlock, here_ , the reality of it. And Sherlock did not protest, sighing pleasantly, letting John move him. _This is what I've been missing_ , John thought. Mind-blowing out-of-control sex had a definite appeal, but this was a different kind of magnificent. Slow, sensual, exploring every part of Sherlock's body with his hands; no rush, simply love.

The taste of John's jaw, covered in prickly stubble pricking along Sherlock's tongue; the feel of his hands on John's hip and sides; his nose against John's ear. All of it. All of these sensations; impossible and too much and not enough, all of them. Sherlock sucked at the salt-tasting skin, greedily.

That jaw-sucking was ridiculously exciting, and John worked to keep his breathing steady. Evidently - and should John be surprised? - Sherlock noticed, licking John's ear experimentally - tantalizingly slowly. John gasped, shivering, and then Sherlock's mouth was on his earlobe, very gently sucking, his hand rubbing John's hip. John made a small noise, trying harder to keep his breathing steady. Slow and sensual were heading out of the window; whatever Sherlock was doing with his ear was making him quite hard.

In this, at least, there was no misreading John, which Sherlock quite enjoyed; it was one of the myriad things about this in which he took great pleasure, in fact, and so he kept at it, running his hand down John's thigh. Solid thigh. Solid man. Real in a way Sherlock never could be.

John pulled Sherlock closer. The man let go of his ear, burying his face in John's neck, and John rubbed the man's back again with both hands, firmly. Emotions of many turbulent kinds were starting to swell in him. Sherlock was kissing his neck now, pressing close. "You're amazing," John sighed.

Sherlock chuckled, to disguise the quickening of his pulse. Surely John would notice? It sounded loudly in Sherlock's ears now, like an alarm; a hunting call.

"You are," John repeated, firmly.

"You are..." What could he say? He felt it, but not a single word came to mind. 'Everything' would be excessive, surely? "Very distracting."

That was not what John had been expecting - but when did Sherlock do anything expected? John laughed, freely, heartily, and _damn_ it felt good to do that.

Sherlock laughed with him - how could he not? But there were too many words, and Sherlock knew one surefire way to stifle them - he silenced John's mouth in a kiss, rubbing his legs against John's while his hands explored elsewhere.

John wrapped his legs around the back of Sherlock's; their erections pressed against each other, and he found himself humming a little with the pleasure of it.

This was a deep-seated hunger; Sherlock moved his lips and tongue with slow deliberation. John's cock against his own was too much, too soon; he shifted slightly to the side, rubbing against John's hip and exhaling in a soft moan. He needed something to hold on to, and John's ass fit the bill perfectly. Sherlock grabbed it, and in doing so lost all sense of 'too much' or 'soon' - his cock against John's, _yes_. Friction and skin against skin, and how could he ever have wanted anything else?

John started to pull Sherlock up and down as the other man aligned their erections; they rubbed against each other, caught between the two men's bodies. John slithered his hand between them, capturing Sherlock's erection, squeezing it gently but firmly. He felt more than heard Sherlock's moans grow deeper and fuller as he lifted himself to support himself on his hands, giving John's hands more room to move. John stroked Sherlock's cock, then started to experiment, squeezing it, bending it a little. He had, after all, never discovered exactly what Sherlock _liked_ \- other than the obvious. Sherlock did seem to moan and harden a little more with the more forceful touches, and so John went in that direction, with harder squeezes and bends.

A switch flicked in Sherlock's head; he thrust into John's hand, mindlessly. _This; this!_ Giving John control, giving in to him; _god; yes..._ He would come from this; he would come from the thought of it!

John thought about handcuff keys, and confessions, and firm cock touches; he bent his head down to nibble at Sherlock's nipples, using more teeth than he might normally. Sherlock gasped in pleased surprise, then let himself down to kiss John passionately, body warm and flushed. John crushed Sherlock close as he kissed the man. This was not his thing, no, but he could try, couldn't he? When Sherlock fumbled to get his hand on John's cock, John caught the other man's hand, deflecting it.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat; the slight trace of pain set everything off into sharp relief; each bite sent a shock through his body. He kissed John intently, desperately; if there was more to this, he had to have it, _now_.

John rolled over, placing Sherlock beneath him, capturing Sherlock's hands. He could do this. Sherlock's eyes were wide and a little wild; his pulse racing. John kissed him hard and deep, holding Sherlock's hands firmly against the bed, and was rewarded with a whine as Sherlock pressed up against him. John pulled back, letting go of Sherlock's hands. "Suck my cock."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. He licked his lips and looked down; John's cock, like the rest of him, was hard, yet soft and warm and just the right size; it fit, Sherlock knew, neatly into his mouth, and he loved the filling, solid sensation of it... but what thrilled him now was the _command_. He hesitated; was this some sort of joke? There were so many of them he did not understand.

John pushed his hips towards Sherlock. He felt ten kinds of twat, but he was giving this a go, and he was determined to do it fully. "Now."

Not a joke, god help him; _real_. Sherlock lunged at John's cock like a starving man, sucking it in deeply with moans of deep pleasure. There was no telling how well this compared to fantasy; Sherlock had never fully dared to imagine it.

John put one hand at back of Sherlock's head, pulling himself up on his knees. As good as Sherlock's mouth on him felt, he was a little self-conscious, like he was giving a talk on a subject he hadn't fully read up on, and orgasm was nowhere near.

Sherlock grabbed John's hips immediately for leverage; all that mattered now was pleasing John, and that delicious hard cock in his mouth. He took more in, sucking greedily. John's hand was in his hair now, pulling hard and taking yet more control away from Sherlock. All he could do was keep his mouth open, working lips and tongue, as John pushed and pulled him steadily in and out. Oh god; it was _unbearable_ ; Sherlock’s own cock was aching, leaking precome, but he could not touch himself; that was not for him to decide now. The thought of it brought him even closer to the edge, and he moaned, squeezing John's hips harder.

John noticed Sherlock's reaction - well, he must be getting something right. He kept the pace slow and deliberate - almost all the way out, then as far in as possible, again and again. Sherlock's grip tightened; his eyes were closed and his body was shaking, a little.  
John pulled Sherlock's head all of the way back, until his own cock was no longer in Sherlock's mouth. "Get yourself off..."

No, _no_ ; no more of that delicious feeling? Sherlock tried to reach John's cock anyway, straining and whimpering, but the command in John's eyes when Sherlock looked up to meet them was far more important. He took himself in hand and stared into those eyes, losing himself.

"Yes... like that." John held his own cock, as if to keep it away from Sherlock. Words could not express how odd he felt, playing this role - but if Sherlock enjoyed it, that was fine.

Sherlock stroked himself, hesitantly, licking his lips and stealing glances at John's cock. To have that in his mouth as he did this... to be allowed... but he wasn't, and that was good; _better_ ; and really, the thought was enough, wasn't it? The thought, and John watching him, and _yes_... Sherlock gave in, stroking fast and frantically, biting his lip to keep himself from temptation.

This - now this was unquestionably sexy. The look on Sherlock's face, so wanton, so given in to pleasure, so unlike his normal self; those long, elegant hands on that cock, stroking... John licked his own hand and started to stroke himself.

Now _there_ was a distraction. John's hands and cock and so close, and he could taste it in his mouth still; within seconds, Sherlock came, gasping, mouth open.

It was the clearest view John had ever had of the blissful expression of orgasm on Sherlock's face, and he could not control himself. He wanked hard and fast, coming on Sherlock within a minute. He gasped at the sight of himself spilling onto Sherlock's body, shuddering with his own orgasm.

Sherlock leaned back, watching, stroking himself through the last shudders of his own climax. John's come was spattered on his chest; he might even reach it with his tongue if he leaned down, a little. Sherlock licked his lips, feeling lightheaded.

John recovered, coming back to himself. He was naked and sticky, spent cock in hand, and had just done... a little show, as it were. He smiled an uneasy, self-conscious smile.

A smile - it was enough of a permission. Sherlock leaned forward, licking at John's deflating cock. That bitter taste perfectly complimented the dull ache in his groin and the tingling in his chest. He looked up in question, needing permission, or if not, appropriate punishment. Now _there_ was a thought.

John shivered at the sensation of Sherlock's tongue on his still-sensitive cock. "Hope that was all right."

'All right'. No words. There were no words. Righting himself, Sherlock embraced tightly, almost rocking him. "You didn't have to do that." He was panting; he felt like he'd run a marathon.

"I wanted to do something for you." John replied, awkwardly.

Sherlock leaned back to look into John's eyes fully. His face tried to settle on an expression, but none that was entirely appropriate came to mind. What could he possibly say to that? Did he have to say anything? His face felt flushed and far too hot. "Shower now, I think," he muttered. That would have to do, for now.

John nodded. Shower, then get up and - work? It was... shit, what day was it? A weekday, certainly. "I should go into the clinic for a while - I've missed some time."

Nodding in turn, Sherlock ran his hand over the line of John's shoulder, past the upper border of his scar and down his arm. Perhaps these were the important things; arms and beds and showers and soft caresses; everyday things that made John close his eyes and sigh in pleasure. "Go on then," Sherlock said, quietly. And smiled.

* * *

As he left the clinic that evening, John was a little surprised to note that he felt _good_ about life. Sarah seemed to have settled into 'affable,' if a little gushing (product, he was sure, of the idea that he had some sort of Exciting Adventuresome Life - but that was his own blog's fault, wasn't it?). Work was generally satisfying. He was back in 221B, and Sherlock was... not bored. For the moment.

However, he did still have to take the Tube ride out to Harry's place to pick up the belongings - clothing, laptop, shoes - that he had left there. He was not looking forward to it, and felt a little guilty about _that_. Yes, he very much owed Harry an explanation, and it would be wrong of him not to let her know what had been going on, why he had left, and that he was back in London. Yet some selfish part of him rolled its eyes at the innuendo and crass commentary she would feed him, even if she were, by some miracle, sober.

He brooded over this for the entire train ride.

The lights in the house were out when he arrived, which gave him a swell of guilt-ridden relief. Perhaps she was out, and he could just slip in, take his things, leave a note, lock up and leave the spare key under the mat.

However, when he opened the door, the dim light of candles at a dinner table - not visible from outside - greeted him. Harry jumped up, a little too quickly. "Oh, John!" she said, practically running forward. "Here to pick up your things? They're where you left them, over in the guest room..."

She grabbed his arm and hustled him in that direction - but not before he got a good view of her dinner companion. The look on Sally's face said, as clearly as words, _Tell Sherlock about this, and I will kill you_.

John did not have to feign a broad smile.  



End file.
